


Once Upon a Time

by ScoutLover



Category: Leverage
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Developing Relationship, Drama, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Leverage AU, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-23
Updated: 2013-06-23
Packaged: 2017-12-15 22:11:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 35,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/854567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScoutLover/pseuds/ScoutLover
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once upon a time in the fair land of Lévèrage, things really weren’t all that fair at all</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Once Upon a Time

**Author's Note:**

> **AN 1:** This is set roughly in the Middle Ages. I say roughly because I have, *ahem*, cheated on language, history, social systems, geography … hell, everything. Think of this as Disneyfied Middle Ages.
> 
>  **AN 2:** Many, many thanks to for creating a piece of art that took over my brain and forced ( _FORCED_ , I say) me to create this world. This became so much bigger than I ever anticipated, but I sort of fell in love with the world she inspired. So the fic that ate the internet is _ALL. HER. FAULT._ That’s my story and I’m stickin’ to it. ;P
> 
>  **AN 3:** Many, many thanks also to my betas – , and – who waded into this sucker and have labored with endless patience to make it better. All mistakes, naturally, remain mine
> 
>  **Link to art:** [Here](http://ultra-fic.livejournal.com/77952.html)

**Prologue:**

_Once upon a time, in days remembered only in fairy tales and nursery rhymes, there existed a land known as Lévèrage. It was a fair and happy land, blessed by sturdy, hard-working folk, fertile fields and the benefits of peace. The land was watched over by two lords, who divided it among them, and each took responsibility for half. One, Lord Nathan, was a wise and compassionate man, deep of thought and noble of character, who ruled with both strength and fairness. The other, Lord James … was not._

_In the fair land of Lévèrage, when the times were good, noble lords watched over their people with care and concern, made fair laws and upheld justice, and strove diligently for peace and prosperity among their folk. Bold, brave knights served their lords with loyalty and courage, wielding their swords in the service of right, protecting the weak and defending the oppressed. Fair maidens danced in green and flower-laden meadows without care, beautiful ladies presided over courts with warmth and grace, and young men of nimble minds and skilled hands could come to fame and fortune by virtue of their gifts._

_But even in the fair land of Lévèrage, times were not always good._

_Sometimes they were dark and difficult._

_And once upon a time, they really, **really** sucked._

**Chapter One**

The boy leaned back on his arms in the tall grass and lifted his face to the sky, delighting in the warmth of the sun on his skin and smiling at the tug of the light breeze at his hair. He’d taken off his boots and now dug his bare toes into the earth, closing his eyes and simply relaxing into the moment.

He’d escaped again.

He knew his father would be angry, but, just now, he didn’t care. He hated being shut up inside with the tutor when the day was so fair, couldn’t understand why he had to waste his time staring at books and ledgers when there was an entire world out there to see. He already knew his figures well enough, could read better than most of the men around him, knew by heart the Latin required for Mass. And as a landowner’s son, he’d absorbed almost from birth the lessons of weather, water, soil and husbandry.

But none of it mattered to him.

What he _truly_ wanted lay far beyond his father’s holdings. From his earliest days, he’d been fascinated by the soldiers he saw returning from the wars, from places he’d only read of in his tutor’s books; scarred and bearded and fierce, telling tales of exotic lands, glittering cities and the glory only to be found in battle. He stared in awe at their swords, ached to hold and know the secrets of such weapons, longed for the time when he might escape his father’s simple fields and make his name and fortune in the world that lay beyond. He wanted to live those stories for himself, to seek whatever glory waited for him.

Not that his father would ever allow it.

He sighed heavily and frowned, his pleasure in the day fading. His father was vehemently opposed to such a thing, insisting that the stories were lies and refusing even to consider the possibility of allowing his son to become a soldier. Of late, this had become a source of almost constant tension between them. Whenever his father caught him practicing with his sword, the man grew angry and accused him of foolishness. And he railed against the unfairness of it. His father had _been_ a soldier, had seen other lands and tasted the glory of war, but was determined to deny his own son that adventure.

But _he_ was determined, too.

He glanced down at the sword lying at his side. Old Fitz in the village said he was already almost the equal of any grown man. Fitz had been a soldier himself, told stirring tales of the battles he’d seen, and had been giving him lessons with sword, lance and shield, as well as instruction in the dirtier art of close knife-fighting.

Fitz had said he was a natural.

His smile returned at that. He’d never be the scholar his tutor seemed to want, and never be the farmer his father desired. Soldiering was his destiny. And just as soon as he was old enough, he’d leave these dull fields behind and seek out that destiny. Maybe like so many others before him he’d find it in the holy wars in the east.

That land of golden desert, shining cities, and dark-eyed women.

He sat up, his grin returning as a thrill of excitement shot through him. Instinctively, he reached for his sword, lifted it to the sky and began to sing.

_For God and King we now take up the sword,_  
In the company of the just we march.  
Let our souls fly aloft as we raise our banners,  
May strength be in our hearts and arms  
As we lay our lives on the altar of sacrifice–  


He caught a flash of movement, of color, from the corner of his eye and tensed slightly. Still singing the song he’d learned from Fitz, he turned his head slowly, until he saw what he’d expected.

 _Her._ Standing as she always did, just between the forest and the meadow, perfectly still save for the soft movement of her bright golden hair in the breeze. She held a small bouquet of flowers in her hands, and was staring at him through wide, unblinking eyes.

He continued singing, repeating verses when he ran out of ones he knew, turning slowly and carefully all the while until he was fully facing her. She didn’t flee, but neither did she come any closer; she never did. She seemed to be listening to him, though, and he knew the moment he stopped singing she’d turn and scamper back into the forest.

She always did.

He had no idea who she was or where she lived. He’d never seen her anywhere but here, between the forest and the meadow, like some mythic sprite. Sometimes he saw her with flowers, as now; other times, she would chase the butterflies that fluttered in such abundance here. But always, always she was silent, and would stop and stare when he began to sing or tell her stories.

Sometimes he wondered if she were real at all.

If so, she looked to be a few years younger than he, was slender and beautiful as only a wild creature could be. Her golden hair was long and tousled, half in a loose braid, half out, and he longed to touch it to know if it were as soft as it looked. She wore a gown that seemed to be made almost entirely of patches and that was as colorful as the flowers around her. He could see a smudge of dirt on one cheek, and supposed that came from running through the forest.

He wished she’d speak, wondered what she’d do if he stood up and started toward her, but was almost certain she’d turn and run. She didn’t seem frightened of him – or not any more – but neither did she seem inclined to let him get close. She just seemed to be … curious.

He’d first seen her about a year ago, when he’d caught her watching him practicing with his sword. He’d called out to her, and she had run away. Since then he’d said nothing to her directly, had merely continued practicing or started singing or telling stories to the world at large. The longer he sang or spoke, the longer she stayed.

And every now and then he thought he saw her smile.

He finally ran out of verses and let the song die. Before he could think of another, she was gone, turning on her heel and running away as fast as a deer. He started to go after her, then stopped. Something told him he’d never find her anyway.

With a sigh, he laid his sword back on the ground and reached for his boots, tugging them on. As always, her departure seemed to take some of the brightness from the day and left him with no reason to stay. And he did have chores to do back home.

He rose to his feet, slipped his sword into the sheath at his waist and started across the meadow. Between one step and the next, though, he stopped and turned, looking back to where she once had stood and seeing only a cloud of butterflies.

Young Eliot Spencer turned back and strode resolutely toward home, feeling the weight of the sword at his hip and dreaming of the glory he’d find one day with it.

She watched him go from her perch in the tree, humming the song he’d sung. She kept all his songs and stories, repeating them to herself until they were pressed securely in the pages of her memory. Little pieces of him she stole, like all the other bright trinkets she took when they caught her eye. Sometimes she showed Archie the newest additions to her “collection.” But these pieces she hid away for herself alone, keeping _him_ for herself alone.

_Eliot._

She knew his name, knew he lived in the white-washed house over the next hill, knew which room in that house was his and which window led into that room (it conveniently had a large tree growing close enough for him to sneak out … or her to sneak in). She knew that his family, while not wealthy, owned this land, knew he had both his parents and a sister and that he and his father argued. A lot.

And she knew he was going away.

She could hear it in the stories he told and songs he sang, his words of far-off places and distant adventures, never words that spoke of home and _here_. And she could see it in the way his eyes – as blue as the sky itself – traveled constantly to the horizon, overlooking what was right before him to see what lay beyond. He wore and practiced with a soldier’s sword – she’d stolen one just like it to try and understand its power over him – and talked to soldiers in the town, collecting _their_ stories and songs and pressing them into _his_ memory.

He was like her butterflies – pretty, a splash of color against an otherwise drab world … and destined to fly away. She didn’t collect her butterflies, knew keeping them would kill them, and so had to content herself with merely watching them and letting them color her world for the little while they were here.

It was the same with Eliot.

So she collected his stories and his songs and pressed them into her memory, using his words to build for herself the worlds he longed to see. And, now and then, whether by sneaking into his room when no one was around or by waiting when he was so intent upon his sword practice here that he didn’t see her, she managed to steal a trinket or two from him, just so she might have something _real_ to hold–

And to remember him by when he flew away.


	2. All War is Hell

_Twenty Years Later_

He stood on the rampart and stared out at the craggy, gray-green hills shimmering in the distance, welcoming the play of the light afternoon breeze against his skin and through his hair while trying to block out the sounds of debauched revelry rising from the streets behind and below him. They’d taken the city a week ago, and, as ever, the men seemed intent upon celebrating their victory until they all lay dead drunk and unconscious in the streets. Or simply _dead_ at the vengeful hands of those they’d taken it from. They’d lost six men already that way – a slit throat here, a knife in the back there – and he had no doubt a few more would be added to the grisly tally this night as well.

He shivered despite the day’s heat. Once the new bodies were discovered in the morning, it would start again. Damien would be furious and would order _him_ to act. He would have to round up some of the populace and punish them … kill them … as a demonstration of Damien’s power and the dangers of resisting it. Which would only enrage the people and incite them to more acts of violence, which would then force _him_ to retaliate–

And he was tired of it. Tired of _all_ of it – the fighting, the killing, the carnage, the sight and smell of blood and the screams that haunted him even in his dreams. This had been his life for twenty years now, in one army or another, in one war or another, selling his sword to the highest bidder for no better reason than that this was what he did.

Only … he’d _had_ a reason once, a _true_ reason. Hadn’t he?

He frowned and tried to remember, tried to recall exactly what had driven him to seek this life. As a boy desperate to escape the tedium of his father’s farm, dreams of soldiering, of glory and adventure, had filled his mind and fired his imagination. But that boy had died long ago, his dreams left broken and bleeding on some nameless, blood-soaked plain or amid the ruins of some plundered city, just one more casualty of war. And all the grand and noble causes that once had inspired him had been lies. War was war, and he was just one more butcher in the slaughter pen.

Sometimes he thought he’d sell his soul to get back to that simple but peaceful life on his father’s farm. If only he still had a soul to sell …

Footsteps and the ring of spurs against stone broke into his thoughts, and he scowled at the intrusion. But he didn’t turn, suspecting he knew whom it was and in no mood to talk with him, merely shook his long hair out of his face and continued to stare off at the distant mountains.

_He could reach them in three or four days …_

“He’s asking where you are,” came the clipped and vaguely resentful tone.

Eliot fought back a smile; the bastard did hate being reduced to errand boy. “I’m right here,” he answered, completely aware of how supremely unhelpful that was. Sometimes baiting Chapman was all the entertainment he got.

Chapman ground his teeth and clenched his hands into fists at his sides. “Yes, I can see that,” he spat. “But Damien wants you where _he_ is.”

Eliot sighed, his humor, perverse as it was, fading. He bowed his head and frowned down at his chest, absently brushing a hand against the golden lion emblazoned on his black surcoat. The arms of Damien Moreau, the man to whom he’d pledged his life and had served for five years. He winced slightly.

Until now.

He let his hand fall away from his chest. He’d known this moment must come, had been waiting for it, bracing for it with each courier that rode through the city gates. He’d been living on borrowed time since his last return from an-Sharifa … which perhaps explained his recklessness in helping Damien take _this_ city. Why not spend his life in one last bid for glory? Except that he’d survived – damn his luck – and now had to face Damien, and the consequences of what he’d done. Or hadn’t done. He wasn’t sorry for the decision he’d made, had truly felt, and felt even now, that he’d had no choice-

_But._ His hand crept back to the lion on his chest. He’d betrayed Damien. And that _did_ hurt.

They’d been together for five years. Damien had found him, recruited him, and from then on their fortunes had been linked. Together they had built and trained a small but elite army that had become the most highly sought mercenary force in the Levant, selling their swords to any man who had gold enough to pay.

But fighting other men’s battles hadn’t been enough for Damien. He’d wanted power for himself, and had used his army to seize it. In five years he’d built a small empire, taking and holding a series of cities and fortresses that gave him control of a number of important – and profitable – trade and supply routes and waterways. _Lord_ Damien Moreau, self-styled Count of Jaifa and El-Hattin, had become a feared and powerful force in the region.

As had Eliot. He’d become Damien’s chief lieutenant, had more influence with the man than anyone else alive, was both respected and feared for the ferocity with which he served Damien’s interests … and resented for the singular place he held in Damien’s affections. He was the instrument of Damien’s will and the angel of Damien’s wrath. What Damien wanted _he_ took, whether it was another city … or another life.

And it was all starting to take its toll. Years ago he’d stopped dreaming, or at least had stopped remembering his dreams. But in recent months his dreams had returned, lurid, blood-drenched visions of carnage and destruction, with the faces and screams of his victims tearing apart his mind. More than once he’d awakened screaming himself, terrifying whichever woman had been sharing his bed that night, or, worse, had awakened to _her_ screams, finding himself atop her with a knife at her throat.

He slept alone most nights, now.

Though, in truth, he rarely slept at all.

“Shall I tell him you won’t be coming, then?” Chapman asked, clearly relishing that prospect.

Eliot turned and stared coldly at him. Chapman had joined Damien’s force at the same time he had, one more displaced soldier in search of a war. But he hadn’t risen quite as fast or quite as far as Eliot, hampered by his own bloody-minded nature, and had conceived a seething resentment of Eliot for his own failings.

He also openly coveted Eliot’s place at Damien’s side.

Treacherous little rat-faced shit.

For a moment he was tempted to give Chapman what he wanted, to stay where he was and let the bastard carry the tale of his defiance to Damian, to hand Chapman the sword that would strike him down. It would be almost worth it just to end the dreams. And the fighting.

He was just so damned _tired_.

He opened his mouth to answer, the words that would seal his fate slipping onto his tongue, when a strange flash of color at the corner of his eye distracted him. Frowning, he looked away from Chapman and toward the flash–

And was startled to see a butterfly flitting on the breeze, its vibrant wings beating a deceptively lazy rhythm in the air. In an instant, years and weariness rolled away, the harsh light and stark lines of desert gave way to the soft scents and lush greens of forest and field, and he could see a golden-haired sprite in a tattered rainbow dress leaping and chasing and dancing through a cloud of butterflies. For a moment she turned to him, and he could swear he saw a smudge of dirt on her pale cheek. She stared at him through wide, gray eyes, seemed almost to smile, and he suddenly wanted nothing more than to know her name. He lifted a hand and stepped toward her–

And she was gone. The dream vanished as quickly as it had come, his world shifting jarringly back to harsh light, stark desert … and Chapman. Waiting. _Always_ waiting for him to make a misstep.

Fuck him.

He drew himself up to his full height, shook his hair out of his eyes, and smiled. “I’ll go see what he wants.”

Chapman’s disappointment was obvious. His eyes narrowed and his jaw tightened, the grinding of his teeth almost audible. His hand clamped hard about the hilt of his sword, and for a moment it seemed he would draw it.

But Eliot knew better. Chapman would never challenge him directly; a knife in the back, yes, but an honest challenge, never. He chuckled quietly and shook his head, which only angered Chapman more.

Idiot.

Still smiling, he started forward. But he stopped at Chapman’s side, leaned in close and whispered softly, “Someday I am going to kill you.” And he pressed a gentle kiss to Chapman’s temple.

The man sputtered, but Eliot only chuckled again and started forward once more, his shoulders loose and his step lighter than it had been in days. Months.

Damien waited.

And, just ahead of him, a small, bright butterfly danced in the air.

Damien paced angrily about the lavish chamber, his tall, powerful frame fairly vibrating with rage, his green eyes aflame. Servants scurried about on silent feet, trying to do their duties while staying out of his path, while several young, beautiful women in various stages of undress huddled against the far wall, trying to escape his notice. He ignored them all, however, entirely consumed in his fury at having been disobeyed.

_Again._

And by _Eliot_ , of all people.

It was becoming a most disagreeable habit with the man.

He glanced again down at the paper in his hand, a rather long and whining report from Atherton, his commander in An-Sharifa, then spat out a curse in his native tongue and violently crumpled and hurled the page away.

The incompetent bastard _still_ hadn’t managed to take full control of the city. Because _Flores_ was still opposing him. Because _Eliot_ still hadn’t killed Flores. Because Flores was an “honorable” man.

As if that should mean anything.

Damien swore again and whirled about … and saw the women huddled against the wall. Infuriated by the stark terror on the faces – Christ, he wasn’t a _monster_! – he swore again, snatched a glass from a nearby table and flung it at the wall above their heads, showering them with wine and shards of glass.

“Get out!” he snarled. “I’ll call for you when I need you!”

Heedless of the broken glass covering and surrounding them, they leapt as one to their feet and scurried out. The servants, however, remained frozen in place, knowing the smallest wrong move on their part could prove disastrous. And painful.

Damien turned again, spotted one of the servants, and exhaled sharply. “Clean that up,” he ordered. “And then get out.”

The man bowed deeply and hurried to get to work.

Damien banished the other servants as well, then went to the large and ornate desk beneath one window and sank down into the chair. The desk was littered with papers – reports from commanders and spies, appeals for assistance from allies and offers of truces and alliances from foes. Just now, though, none of it mattered.

Eliot was drifting away.

He’d been noticing it for weeks now. Eliot had never _enjoyed_ violence, but he’d understood its necessity and applied it with a cold detachment that had made him very good at what he did. Until recently. Something in him had changed. He’d lost that detachment and, more and more, seemed … troubled … by what was required of him. Worse, he seemed increasingly unable to do what was required of him. And now he’d failed to kill Flores–

No. He’d _refused_ to kill him.

Damien sighed and thrust himself out of his chair, resuming his pacing. He needed Flores dead. An–Sharifa was too valuable to lose. Damien had had to send Eliot _twice_ – once with a force of men to solidify Atherton’s hold, the second time alone, simply to kill Flores and whatever lieutenants he thought might also be a problem.

The first time he’d succeeded, though it didn’t seem he’d slept since. The second time–

Flores was still alive. And Eliot _still_ wasn’t sleeping.

Somehow, Damien had lost his best, and favorite, killer.

And it was time he dealt with that, before it destroyed him, Eliot and everything they had built.

He heard a quiet knock on the door and stiffened, knowing instinctively who it was. “Come,” he ordered, never turning toward the door. Instead, he clasped his hands behind his back and stared out the window at the mountains beyond the city.

Eliot stepped through the doorway and into the apartment. At any other time, he might have sought a seat on one of the low couches or among the thick, soft cushions on the floor, but not now. He said nothing, didn’t announce himself and offered no greeting. What could he say? He knew what he’d done, and what Damien’s response must be. So he merely stood in silence, waiting to be handed his sentence.

For his part, Damien wished Eliot _would_ speak. He wanted, _needed_ , to hear some reason, some explanation … _anything_ that would make this better. That would make it go away. Yet even as he wished for it, he knew better; Eliot had never been one for excuses. He’d always appreciated that about the man.

Until now.

“Flores is still alive,” he said at last into the gulf of silence that stretched between them, a gulf that had never existed before. He didn’t turn around, didn’t raise his voice. His words were quiet and matter-of-fact, yet a world of doubt and confusion and pain hung upon them. “Can you explain to me _why_ Flores is still alive?”

Eliot closed his eyes and bowed his head, his heart heavy and cold as a stone in his breast. “I–” His voice caught in his throat and broke. He winced and licked his lips, then cleared his throat and tried again. “I couldn’t do it.” He winced again and bowed his head lower. “I’m sorry,” he breathed.

“But not sorry enough to actually do as I ordered,” Damien said, still not turning around.

Eliot opened his eyes and raised his head, squaring his shoulders. “It seemed wrong to kill him for being a better man than any of us,” he said evenly, almost accusingly.

Damien whirled around and stared at Eliot in utter confusion. And disbelief. “For being– The man is _standing between_ me and what I want!” he shouted. “Because of him – and that idiot Atherton – _I might lose An-Sharifa!_ How does that make him _better_ than us?”

“Because he still believes in something!” Eliot snapped. “Christ, Damien, An-Sharifa is his home! Do you really expect him to just hand it over without a fight? And to _Atherton_ of all men?” Fury exploded within him and he strode forward, stopping before Damien and glaring up into his eyes. “Atherton’s incompetent, we both know that! He couldn’t inspire his soldiers to take a piss! They hate him, our allies hate him, hell, everyone who’s ever met him hates him! And if you think my killing Flores is going to change that, then you’ve lost your mind!”

Damien snarled out a curse and raised his hand, ready to strike, but held himself back at the last minute. He would have killed anyone else for speaking to him that way, _had_ killed them, but Eliot had always been the exception. And it seemed he still was. The man had never learned to hold his tongue, had never seemed to care that Damien could have him dragged away and flogged or just kill him where he stood for such insolence. Instead, Eliot insisted on being as brutally honest with him as he was with everyone else, as if it were perfectly acceptable.

Which, Damien had to admit, he’d allowed it to become. Hell, if he were _truly_ honest, he’d have to admit that he encouraged it, even needed it. Eliot Spencer might be the only man in the world not too afraid or in awe of him to tell him the truth, whether he wanted to hear it or not.

The bastard.

“So why didn’t you just kill Atherton for me?” he asked peevishly, crossing his arms and staring down at Eliot. “That is what you do, isn’t it?”

Eliot grit his teeth and drew a long breath, releasing it slowly. “And then what?” he ground out. “Who would I have put in his place? Ribera? He’s even more useless than Atherton!”

“ _You_ could have taken his place–”

“You needed me here, to take _this_ city, remember?” he pointed out with a strained patience. “I was a little too busy at the time to clean up Atherton’s shit!”

Damien exhaled sharply and turned away, running a hand through his hair. Eliot was right – damn him – but that didn’t solve the problem. Atherton was incompetent, but Flores was _dangerous_ , and Eliot refused to kill him.

Eliot was refusing to do too many things these days.

He went to the desk and leaned upon it, closing his eyes and hanging his head. He knew what he should do, what he _would_ do with anyone else … but Eliot _wasn’t_ anyone else. And he hadn’t been in a very long time.

“So now what?” he asked softly, feeling suddenly tired and lost. “How many more orders am I going to give that you are going to refuse? And how can I keep _letting_ you refuse? You know what will come of that.”

Eliot flinched and bowed his head, his shoulders slumping. “I know. If I can get away with it, someone else will try. But when I have to kill him for doing what I’ve done–”

“Would you?” Damien asked softly. “Kill such a man for me?”

Eliot flinched again, knowing where this would inevitably lead. _Flores._ An ache built in his chest, hard and deep and sharp as any sword. Faces danced before him, so _many_ faces, men and women and even children, their eyes terrified and accusing, their mouths opening to scream–

And one face suddenly rose against all the others, more confused, more accusing, than the rest. Pale, smudged with dirt and framed by sun-gold hair, gray eyes staring at him in horror. He remembered her watching him with something like pride and pleasure while he’d practiced with his sword, but couldn’t imagine her being proud of the things he’d done with it since.

Over the years, he’d sometimes wondered if the girl in the meadow had been real, if she were a true memory or just a symbol conjured by his mind of the innocence he’d lost in all the bloodshed and violence that had consumed his life. In this moment, though, it didn’t matter. Memory or symbol, she was calling to him and offering him a choice. A chance.

Likely the last one he would ever get.

He drew a deep breath and lifted his head, standing straight and squaring his shoulders. “I can’t kill Flores,” he said quietly, evenly, knowing exactly what he was risking. But, hell, he’d risked his life for less before. “I _won’t_ kill him. Not even for you. And I’m not … I can’t … do … any of this any more. It’s just … I can’t. Not any more.”

Damien stiffened and sucked in a sharp breath at the soft words. He knew he should have expected this, in some part of him _had_ expected it, but that did nothing to lessen the shock of it.

Among all his other gifts, it seemed Eliot still had the unique ability to hurt him.

“I’m sorry,” Eliot whispered. “I just … I can’t. I’m tired, Damien. The things I’ve done, the people I’ve killed– I see their faces in my dreams. And I’ll never be able to get all the blood off my hands.”

Damien closed his eyes and swallowed hard. If it were any man but Eliot, he would have laughed. They were _all_ covered in blood, all steeped in death. It was the price of the world they had made. And to agonize over it _now_ , after having reaped all the benefits from it, was ridiculous.

But it _was_ Eliot. And there was nothing about any of this that was remotely funny.

He sighed heavily, then opened his eyes and straightened, turning slowly to Eliot. He searched the younger man’s face intently, stared into his eyes … and saw the absolute weariness there. Eliot truly had reached the end.

 “So,” he breathed, “what happens now?”

Eliot bowed his head. He knew what happened now; anyone who’d served under Damien for any length of time did. Nor was the irony of it all lost on him. If it had been anyone else, Damien simply would have waved at _him_ , and he would have killed the bastard. Only now _he_ was the bastard.

But … this was the law he’d lived under, and upheld, for five years. And he didn’t regret what he’d done. He hated like hell that it had hurt Damien so, but he knew he’d made the right choice. For once, he’d done the right thing simply because it _was_ the right thing. And if he had to pay the price for that, well, there were worse reasons to die.

And he’d told himself he wanted peace …

Damien watched in bewilderment as Eliot slowly went to his knees before him. More confusing still, the man slowly drew his sword and laid it almost lovingly on the floor before him, then did the same with the dagger he wore at his right side and the smaller knives he kept in his boots.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asked sharply as Eliot continued to pull blades out of hiding places and lay them on the floor.

Eliot lifted his head and gazed up at Damien, his face a mask of calm acceptance. “Five years ago, I swore an oath to you,” he said quietly. “I pledged myself as your liege man of life and limb, and swore my loyalty to you on pain of death.” He shrugged. “I broke that oath. And we both know what that means.”

Damien stared at him in horror, shaking his head slowly, unable to believe what he was hearing. “You … expect me … to k– to _kill_ you?” he asked thickly, everything in him rebelling at the very thought.

Eliot shrugged again. “It’s your right. You’ve done it often enough before. Or I’ve done it for you.” He gave a strained, wry smile. “But I think you’re going to need someone else for this.”

Damien was dumbfounded. Eliot Spencer was kneeling before him, completely unarmed, defenseless – or as defenseless as he ever was – _and giving **him** permission to kill him!_ “You must be out of your mind!”

Eliot snorted softly. “That’s been suggested a few times,” he said. “But, no, not this time. It’s what you’d do to anyone else, Damien, and we both know it. And if you can’t do it yourself, I’m sure … _Chapman_ ,” he tried not to choke over the name, and the thought of that son of a bitch being the one to do it, “would be delighted to help. Hell, he’s probably standing right outside the door, just waiting for his chance.”

But Damien winced and shook his head. It was, of course, the right thing to do, the _only_ thing to do. Eliot had defied him, not as a mistake or a misunderstanding, but consciously and with full knowledge of what he was doing. There was only one punishment for such an offense, they both knew it … but it was utterly impossible. He’d never be able to give that order, and wouldn’t humiliate himself by trying and failing.

Apparently he had limits, too.

“No,” he said quietly, his voice nowhere near as strong as he would have liked. “I won’t … I can’t … No.” He shook his head again, the very idea repugnant to him. “That is how I deal with failure, or betrayal.”

Eliot frowned in confusion. “But I have–”

“ _Don’t_ ,” Damien ordered sharply, raising a hand. If Eliot said the words out loud, then he’d have no choice. “Now, get off that damned floor, and put your blades where they belong.”

Eliot nodded slowly, still not quite understanding, but not about to argue for a death sentence. And _certainly_ not at Chapman’s hands. “Thank you,” he rasped.

Damien exhaled unsteadily and scrubbed a hand through his hair, then began pacing in agitation as his thoughts tumbled wildly over each other. Eliot really would have just stayed on his knees and accepted death. The bastard had defied his orders to kill Flores, but he would have let Damien, or anyone else he ordered, kill _him_. Because in his mind, it was wrong to kill Flores, but perfectly acceptable for _him_ to die for _not_ killing him.

Christ, just how had they gotten to this point? And why hadn’t he seen it coming sooner?

“You can’t stay, you know,” he said heavily, the words as bitter as gall in his mouth, but undeniably true. Word of Eliot’s … lapse … would speed through the garrison, and his authority and standing would be ruined. Worse, his very life would be in jeopardy. He would be seen as weakened, _vulnerable_ , and no order Damien could give would be enough to prevent the inevitable knife from finding its way into his back. “You’ve made too many enemies, and I can’t always protect you.” He ceased pacing and turned back to Eliot, leveling a sad gaze at him. “And if I did let you stay, _my_ authority would be undermined. You do see that, don’t you?”

Eliot swallowed hard and nodded, stunned by just how much this hurt. For so long, this had been the only life he’d known, his place at Damien’s side the only home he’d known. He’d given everything he had to offer to Damien, had sacrificed parts of himself he could never get back. And now, for the life of him, he couldn’t say whether it had all been worth it.

Damien exhaled heavily. He should be furious at Eliot, he knew that; the man had put him in a damnably awkward position. Just now, though, all he felt was an overwhelming sorrow, and a rather surprising concern for Eliot. The man could certainly take care of himself, had proven that a thousand times over, but …

“What will you do?” he asked quietly. “Where will you go?”

Eliot let his gaze drift past Damien and out the window, to the mountains in the distance. Honestly, he had no idea. Since joining Damien’s service, he’d never thought about being anywhere but at the man’s side. He’d assumed he would die there. He was finished with selling his sword, he knew that, but this was all he’d done for twenty years, and he had no other skills. He stared out the window and tried to think, tried to imagine what he could possibly do now, where he could possibly go from here–

And was suddenly distracted by a flash of color. A butterfly … or a tattered rainbow dress.

“Home,” he whispered, the word coming of its own accord. His father and mother were both long dead, his sister married and gone … but the house that had once seemed so confining would still be there. It was, really, all that he had in this world, all he had any true right to claim as his own.

And it was far removed from any fighting.

“I want to go home,” he said more strongly, startled by the sudden depth and power of that want; that _need_. “I don’t know what’s waiting for me there, but it has to be better than this.” He looked at Damien and shrugged. “I just want to walk in green fields again. Feel rain on my face instead of wind and sand.”

_And watch a golden-haired girl with a dirty face dance among butterflies in a meadow …_

Damien stared at him as if he’d lost his mind. “You’re going back … to become a _farmer_?” he said in something akin to horror. “You don’t know the first thing about that! You’ll starve!”

Eliot smiled slightly, feeling more at peace than he had in months. Years. “How hard can it be? Get some seeds, plant ’em in the dirt, pick whatever grows. Besides,” he smiled crookedly, thinking of the wealth he’d accumulated in Damien’s service, “I think I can afford to hire people who know what they’re doing.”

Damien shook his head slowly, wondering if perhaps Eliot _had_ gone crazy; it would certainly explain things. “You’ll be bored to death inside a month.” He arched two dark brows as an idea, a solution, suddenly came to him. “Look, what if we forget about Flores? He got away. It happens. We can put the blame on Atherton, which everyone will believe, and you can kill _him_ for me instead.”

Eliot sighed, his smile fading. “Damien–”

“All right,” he conceded resignedly. “But it’s a terrible waste.” He regarded Eliot with a sad fondness. “You could have so much more, you know. Hell, you could have anything you want! The world is ours for the taking!”

Eliot winced. “I don’t want the world,” he said softly. “I just want peace.”

Damien stared at him for long moments, then sighed and uncrossed his arms. “So this is how it ends, eh?” he asked quietly, feeling a strange sense of loss settling upon him. He’d lost men before, had killed those who’d displeased him … but never had it left this emptiness in him. Until now.

He turned and went to his desk, where sat a wine decanter and two ornate cups. He didn’t feel at all like celebrating, but moments when the world changed required acknowledgement.

“Let us drink to your reprieve,” he said with a faint smile. “And you can tell me more about this ridiculous idea you have of becoming a farmer.”

Eliot smiled slightly, sadly, at Damien’s teasing, wondering if he would ever belong again anywhere as much as he did here. And if it would be possible to find that place without losing any more of himself in the process.

Damien raised his cup. “Here’s to the future,” he said with a small, wistful smile. “Perhaps, some day, the fates will bring us together again.”

Eliot touched his cup to Damien’s with a smile. But in his heart of hearts, he truly hoped he never saw the man again. For all that they had built and shared, Damien represented a dark chapter in his life that he wanted desperately to forget.


	3. You Can't Go Home Again

She glided stealthily through the crowds, dipping nimble fingers into purses and unfastening clasps at necks and wrists, easily “liberating” whatever trinket caught her eye before slipping away again. Today was May Day, the town and greens surrounding it fairly bursting with people, vendors hawking their wares, musicians and players, and she took full advantage of the festive air. Jewels worn to show off wealth and prestige flashed in the sun, attracting her notice, and purses loosened to make fishing out coins for purchases easier welcomed her hands. The many hidden pockets of her gown bulged with the fruits, cakes, candies and meat pies she’d filched along with her other shiny treasures, and now and then she found herself humming as she danced away from yet another victim.

Today was a good day.

She thought briefly of going to Archie and showing him her bounty, but knew he’d be busy. Today he’d have his shop thrown open and all his goods on display, not just the simpler, more practical items he sold every day, but the expensive, exotic treasures he’d … acquired … on his travels. He’d be in his element with these crowds, telling stories of the places he’d been and the wonders he’d seen, showing off his own sleight of hand skills … and likely picking a purse or two while he held his audience mesmerized. So she’d leave him alone for now, and later, over the feast she’d stolen for them, they could share their takes in private.

Besides, showing them off now would risk attracting attention she _didn’t_ want.

She slipped into a narrow alley between two buildings and, from the safety of the shadows, peered out to study the town. And here and there throughout the people, children, jugglers, minstrels, magicians and vendors, she saw them. _Soldiers._ They made no attempt to disguise their presence or to blend in, but went about in twos and threes, wearing their distinctive red surcoats and armed to the teeth, brazenly flaunting their presence.

Sterling’s men.

Her mouth tightened into a scowl and anger replaced her happiness. Lord James had no right sending his men here. This portion of Lévèrage was still under Lord Nathan’s rule, whether he chose to exert that rule or not, and the people had no desire to serve anyone else. _Especially_ not Lord James Sterling. The man was a heartless, greedy, self-serving bastard – or so Archie, Cora and countless others said – and could never care for them the way Lord Nathan did. Sterling didn’t like people, only power.

And maybe his daughter Olivia.

Her scowl deepened. It didn’t seem fair that Lord James should have a child to love and spoil when Lord Nathan had lost his. And now Lord James was trying to take Lord Nathan’s lands and people as well. It was wrong. Maybe Lord Nathan had withdrawn from his people and allowed his responsibilities to lapse since his son’s death, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t still a good man. Or that he deserved to lose his lands and power to Lord James.

Some things were just _wrong_. Even a thief like her could see that.

Of course, it would be nice if Lord Nathan could see it, too, and do something about it. But he hadn’t done much of anything since his son’s death, except grieve. And drink. He was rarely seen these days, hadn’t toured his lands or held court since he’d buried his son, had simply retreated from the world and kept himself hidden away. He’d even abandoned the beautiful castle he’d been building for his son–

And now Lord James – _Sterling_ , as everyone here still called him; the man wasn’t even a _real_ lord, but had bought the title – had the castle, and was finishing it for his daughter.

While Lord Nathan hid away and let him.

A commotion down the street past Peggy’s bread and pastry shop caught her attention, and she leaned a bit further forward to look. Amid the crowd that had gathered there, she saw an all-too-familiar soldier – Quinn – holding a young man by the shoulder and shaking him roughly, while other soldiers stood around laughing. She swallowed hard, recognizing the boy as another thief, and knew his capture would now make it that much more difficult for her. Thieves were a particular hatred of Sterling’s – perhaps because they reminded him too closely of himself – and now that Quinn and his men had caught one, they would be actively searching for more.

Might be actively searching for _her_.

Everyone in the village knew she was a thief, but, because she tried not to steal too much from those who couldn’t spare it, they tended to protect her. She might be a thief, but she was _their_ thief, as Cora said, and the village would never give up one of its own to Sterling. But there were strangers in town for the fair, and they wouldn’t hesitate to turn in someone caught with a hand in their purses.

Not that she ever _got_ caught. Archie had taught her much too well for that, sharply honing what he called her “natural gifts.” But Sterling knew about her anyway – Sterling seemed to know _everything_ – and had no doubt told his men to look for her specifically.

It was just the kind of thing he would do. And the kind of order Quinn would relish.

And she was fairly certain she wouldn’t enjoy being caught by Quinn. Not that he was good enough or fast enough to catch her.

Still …

She sighed, her joy in the day gone. Sterling had a way of doing that. His shadow darkened everything it touched and turned the warmest day cold. He only allowed celebrations like this because he knew _he’d_ profit in the end, through the fees he charged for “securing” the roads against bandits, the tolls he imposed on bridges and ferries and the taxes he’d collect from the merchants.

Lord Nathan had always lifted tolls and taxes on festival days. But then Lord Nathan had always cared more about people than money.

She turned away and slipped deeper into the shadows, her interest in picking all the purses out there gone. She no longer wanted to see Sterling’s men, no longer wanted to think about having to watch herself around them. They might not be fast enough or good enough on their own to catch her, but someone else might see and turn her in, and she hated not being able to enjoy her stealing.

That was wrong, too.

An idea came to her and she smiled, quickening her step. She’d go up to the meadow, where the flowers were blooming and the butterflies came to dance. She’d dance with them and show _them_ her treasures, certain they’d appreciate brightness and beauty so like their own.

And if, maybe, she dreamed of a brave, blue-eyed soldier singing bold songs and wielding his sword in the battle to make things right again–

Well, only the butterflies had to know.

He stood in the overgrown yard and stared at the house before him, memories from his youth colliding with the evidence of his eyes and giving him a faint sense of vertigo. He half expected his mother to come out at any moment to tend her garden, expected to see his father thatching the roof or hear him berating a wayward son too caught up in dreams of glory to properly yoke the oxen for work in the fields.

But his mother’s garden was long since withered and dead, his father’s voice forever silenced. The roof, or what part of it hadn’t collapsed, badly needed _someone_ to thatch it, and he suspected the yokes that had gotten him into so much trouble as a boy were now all rotted and useless. The whitewash that had once covered the walls was now cracked and dirty or gone altogether, revealing the wattle and daub beneath. In many places, the wattle and daub were gone, leaving the timbers of the house exposed like bare ribs.

Strange that he’d thought the years would leave this place untouched, when they’d altered him beyond repair.

He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, knowing he should go inside but strangely reluctant to do it. His father had made with his own hands and tools all their furnishings, with his mother telling him exactly what she wanted and needed, and he was desperately afraid they would be gone, or worse. He knew what happened to homes that were left empty, had seen it countless times over the years. Hell, he’d plundered more than one himself during the wars, taking what he could barter for food and breaking up whatever would burn for firewood. The thought that someone might have done so to his father’s house, his mother’s treasures, hurt almost beyond bearing.

He needed some part of his world to remain intact.

Needed some part of _him_ to remain intact.

He winced and shook his head. But that was impossible. He’d been gone twenty years, his father and mother dead for seven, his sister married and gone before that. There’d been no one to look after the house for years, no one to care about the roof or the walls or his mother’s garden or his father’s carpentry. The fields would still be cultivated, crops planted and harvested as always by those who knew no other life, but this house, this tiny little place that had once been his entire world, had long since ceased to matter to anyone.

Except to him.

He lifted his head and shook the hair out of his face, then squared his shoulders resolutely. Fuck it. He hadn’t won battles by refusing to face the enemy. Clamping a hand about the hilt of the long dagger sheathed at his waist – God knew what he’d find in there – he forced himself forward with a purposeful stride, bracing himself for whatever ruin awaited him inside. He pushed open the door and stepped into the house–

And stopped in astonishment at the _lack_ of ruin that met him. Oh, the large hall was all but bare, only the long, heavy table where they’d taken their meals remaining, but the table was perfectly intact … and clean, with no debris from the collapsed ceiling covering it and no damage from weather or intruders, animal or human, marring it. A clay pitcher sat at its center, as if simply waiting for someone to fill it with water or wine.

Elsewhere it was much the same. Most of the chests, chairs, tables and cabinets he remembered were gone, but here and there a few remained, as clean as the table. The windows were all bare, but beneath a few of them lay the heavy wooden shutters that once had covered them, all broken, one or two rotted beyond repair, but all seemingly placed by a careful hand where they lay. The screens that had once partitioned the pantries and smaller rooms from the main hall were gone, as were the tapestries that had hung on the walls to keep down the chill, and most of the pantries themselves were empty, whatever had been stored in them long since carried away. But there was no wreckage beyond what time and weather would inflict. Even the large main hearth was empty, swept clean of ash and cinders, as if just waiting for a new fire to be laid.

The whole house seemed to be a state of waiting, kept that way by some unknown hand.

He shook his head dazedly and moved slowly through the house, peering into pantries, running his hand over chests and walls, trying to remember which screen had stood where. When he reached the stairs in the back corner that led up to his parents’ private rooms, he hesitated, then turned away and crossed the hall to the other stairs, choosing to explore his and his sister’s rooms first.

He’d face his parents’ ghosts later …

He set a foot cautiously on the first step, trying its strength before trusting his whole weight to it, and found it surprisingly stable. Trying each step in turn, he ascended, smiling faintly as he remembered how often he’d run up and down these stairs without a care as a boy.

And how his mother had always lamented such unmannered wildness.

He reached the upper level and simply stood there, staring. As below, the screens that had divided his sister’s “room” from his were gone, allowing him to see the entire space. Their beds were but bare wooden frames, their mattresses of straw and feathers gone, as were the tapestries that had once hung on the walls. Oddly enough, though, a small silver brush and comb sat on the ledge by what had been his sister’s bed, and on the ledge by his, where once he’d kept his favorite belongings, lay a knife.

He moved toward it, then stopped abruptly with a sharp gasp, his eyes widening. That had been one of _his_ knives, bought for him by his father at one of the town fairs and lost … he couldn’t remember when or how. One of a hundred possessions lost while fishing at the river or playing soldier in the meadow.

He moved to the knife and picked it up, sitting down on one of the timbers that formed the frame of his bed and staring down in wonder. It was just a simple hunting knife with a polished horn handle, but he remembered how proud he’d been when his father had given it to him. One of the fleeting moments of truce in their eternal war. He pulled it slowly out of its sheath – its _original_ sheath, no less – and blinked in surprise. The blade was clean, free of dirt or rust, and still wickedly sharp.

One more part of his past left here for him to reclaim it.

But by whom?

He shook his head again and looked around. Someone had _been_ here, had left this knife, the brush and comb and the pitcher downstairs, had swept the fireplace and cleared away the fallen roof. Someone had taken it upon themselves to watch over this house, to protect it from the invasions of time and man, to keep it safe and waiting–

For him?

He snorted in ridicule at his foolishness. Who would possibly care whether he returned? Hell, who here would even _remember_ him, or imagine he was still alive if they did?

And yet …

He swallowed hard and shook his head, still staring down at the knife and blinking away the sudden sting of tears. It wasn’t much, he knew. He’d fought in lands where blade-making was an art, had lost or left in his victims knives worth a hundred times more than this one. But he could still see the pride in his father’s eyes when he’d given this to him, the recognition that he was no longer a child, could almost feel the warmth of his father’s callused fingers as he’d pressed it into his hand–

Christ, he’d been such a fool! He should never have left. He’d been wrong to think that war was anything more than slaughter, to believe that he could ever find anything more than what he’d had here by chasing dreams of blood and glory. His father had known, had tried to tell him, but he’d refused to listen, had scorned him as a simple, stupid man who knew nothing about the world and was afraid of it. He’d told himself he was so much smarter, so much stronger, so much _better_ –

And he’d been wrong. _So_ wrong. His father had known more than he’d realized, had _done_ more simply by staying here and making a real _life_ for himself and his family. He’d been a good and decent man who’d come by what he had honestly and fairly and who’d only wanted the same for his son.

He’d deserved more than that son’s anger and contempt.

And it was time he got it.

Eliot sniffed and wiped impatiently at his tears, then rose sharply to his feet, clutching the knife tightly in his hand. He’d been away too long, had strayed too far, had lost himself along the way. But he was back now, and while he couldn’t change the past, he could at least make some atonement for it.

He had a lot of work to do.

He needed to get his belongings off the wagon and bring them into the house that had been kept waiting. He needed to refill his mother’s pantries, fix his father’s roof and walls. He should probably write his sister, let her know he was back … and apologize for twenty years of being an ass.

Above all, he needed to visit his parents’ graves, kneel down and try to remember how to pray, and tell them their son had finally come home.

Parker skipped through the meadow, singing songs stolen from a boy who used to sing here so many years ago. She’d shown the butterflies her treasures, and they’d been duly impressed. She knew because, when she’d been standing very still, one had landed on her outstretched hand and sat there for long moments, marveling at her cleverness.

Butterflies appreciated such things.

And because today was May Day, she’d picked fresh flowers to put in the pitcher on the table in the house. They would be a kind of apology. She’d not been to the house in a fortnight at least, had been too busy helping Archie prepare for the fair. She felt guilty for her neglect, but hoped the flowers would make it all right.

The house got terribly lonely.

No one else saw that but her, so she’d taken it upon herself to ease that loneliness. After rains, she’d come and clear away whatever part of the roof had fallen in, and clean up whatever water and mud had gotten in. She also tried to keep the wild animals out, though once she’d let a family of foxes stay until the kits were old enough to leave.

The foxes had been nice, but the house missed its _people_.

So she’d started leaving small gifts to remind the house of its people. A silver brush and comb (it was all right, she had three more of each) for the girl who’d once lived there, a pretty broach for the woman (the old hag she’d stolen it from hadn’t deserved something so nice), a fine pewter cup for the man, and a knife for the boy.

But not just _any_ knife. _His_ knife. One she’d stolen from him herself one day long ago when he’d fallen asleep while fishing at the river. She remembered that day, remembered how she’d crept up on him, sat and watched him for the longest time … and stolen his knife so she would always remember the day. She’d been fascinated by him. It had been one of the very few times she’d seen him still – he always seemed to be moving, even if it was only his hands – and she’d thought him the finest boy in the world.

Not at all like the stupid rough boys in the village who only wanted to pull her hair or touch her in strange places.

So she’d stolen his knife. But she’d felt bad about it, so she’d left him a small blue pebble in exchange. Blue, like his eyes. She’d run away as soon as he’d started to stir, but she’d hidden and watched him from a distance.

And as he’d left, he’d sung another song for her to steal. She’d kept it as she had all his others.

Sometimes she sang his songs to the house, knowing it would remember, too. But one day, when the house had seemed especially lonely, she’d given it the knife. It would certainly remember that. She’d gone up the stairs to his room (the one with the window that looked out into the tree; sometimes she still used the tree instead of the stairs so _it_ wouldn’t be lonely) and laid the knife on the ledge where he used to keep his things.

She’d felt the house sigh its thanks.

Now she was bringing it flowers. Flowers were important, Sophie said, expressing thoughts and feelings. She hoped these flowers said she was sorry for being away for so long. It was hard to tell with flowers; they didn’t always speak her language. Not like butterflies–

She stopped abruptly and sucked in a sharp breath as she topped the hill overlooking the house. Her stomach clenched hard and she dropped the flowers as a cold chill swept through her.

_No!_

A wagon stood in the middle of the yard, laden with chests. Two horses rested in the dilapidated stable – one a dray horse, the other a much finer bay stallion – and the main door of the house had been taken off its hinges and now rested against an outer wall.

_Someone was invading the house._

She immediately dropped to the ground, not wanting to be seen. Horrified by the intrusion, she crept forward through the tall grass, her heart hammering wildly in her breast, her mind torn by guilt.

She’d failed. She was supposed to protect the house, to keep it safe and ease its loneliness, to remind it of the people it missed while keeping out invaders. But she’d failed. She’d stayed away too long, gotten so busy helping Archie that she’d forgotten her duty _here_ –

And now someone was violating the house.

Anger rose within her and she crept closer still, wanting, _needing_ , to see who would dare this. She moved slowly, slowly, knowing her colorful patchwork dress would disguise her among all the flowers, stopping only when she reached the edge of the high grass, and the end of her concealment. But she could see the wagon much more clearly–

And her heart clenched again.

Soldiers.

She could see the heavy swordbelt hanging from the seat of the wagon, the surcoat draped over one side … but not the scarlet of Sterling’s men. She frowned. Not the bright blue of Lord Nathan’s men, either. This one was black, with a golden lion emblazoned upon it–

Not the arms of any lord she’d ever seen. Not that she’d seen many. Only Lord Nathan and Sterling, in fact. Her frown deepened. Had Lévèrage been invaded without her knowing it? Archie would have mentioned something like that, wouldn’t he? Cora would have; she heard all the gossip in her tavern. And Sophie _certainly_ would have. Sophie knew _everything_.

Except how to make Lord Nathan stop drinking and love her …

She shook her head. Sophie would have to wait. Right now, the house needed her. It was being invaded, and she had to figure out a way to save it. She had no weapons on her except a small knife for cutting fruit that she’d … found … at Cora’s, and she doubted that would be enough. But her gaze darted again to the sword hanging by its belt from the wagon, and she nodded slowly. It was long, and probably heavy, and she had no idea at all how to actually _use_ one–

But the house needed her. She was all it had, and that sword was all _she_ had.

She made her decision, scowled tightly and clenched her hands into fists. She could do this. She _had_ to do this. She gathered her courage and pushed herself slowly to her feet, then drew a deep breath and darted down the hill and toward the wagon–

And froze in place at the edge of the yard as he came out, her heart leaping into her throat. Terror flooded her, but, like a rabbit spotted by the hawk, she was powerless to move.

She had failed the house again.

He seemed not to notice her at first. And he didn’t seem all that dangerous. He wore no armor, only a loose linen shirt and dark leather breeches and boots, and a simple dagger at his waist. His hair was longer than was the custom here, and was a rich earthen brown with tints of red shining in the sun. He seemed to be speaking quietly to himself … no, _singing_ –

She gasped sharply at that, unable to help it, and gave herself away. He heard her, reached for his dagger and looked up to her–

And her world shifted about her as she was pierced through the heart by eyes as blue as the sky.

He sang to himself as he stepped out of the house, pleased with his progress so far. At this rate, he’d have all his belongings moved inside well before sunset–

A sharp, strange sound, almost a cry, came to him on the breeze and he tensed, hand going to his dagger, his every instinct on alert and his song ending on a curse. He’d gotten so caught up in thoughts of home that he’d let his vigilance lapse. Even if there was no war here, still there would be brigands and thieves, rough men who’d not flinch at taking whatever they wanted by force.

And his sword was on the wagon.

He cursed himself again, but tightened his hold on his dagger and started to draw it. Letting his mind still and listening intently for any and every warning sound, he looked up–

And froze at the sight of the slim figure standing still as a startled deer between the hill and the yard, her gray eyes wide and unblinking, her golden hair shining in the sun, a smudge of dirt on her cheek. He gasped, blinked, and let his hand fall away from his dagger, his mind in a whirl.

She was real, was _here_. Suddenly he knew who had kept the house waiting for him, who had left his knife on the ledge by his bed. All this time, he’d been wondering if she’d only been a dream, a vision conjured by his mind, and she’d been _here_ , watching, waiting, the _most_ real thing he’d had in his life in twenty years.

He stared at her, transfixed, and for a moment he could have sworn he saw a butterfly alight on her shining hair. He started forward, opened his mouth to call to her–

And then the girl in the tattered rainbow dress whirled on her heel and raced away.

She ran only as far as the other side of the hill, then crept back up it and lay hidden in the tall grass and flowers, watching him as he went back to work. Joy filled her in a bright, warm wave, and it was all she could do to keep from singing one of the songs she’d stolen from him so long ago. She somehow managed to stay quiet, but could not stop smiling.

He was back. Her boy had come home after all these years.

And suddenly she knew with unshakable certainty that nothing would ever be the same.


	4. Trouble Knows My Name

He wandered aimlessly through town and tried to reacquaint himself with it. It hadn't changed or grown much in twenty years, but such places rarely did. So long as the people here had everything they needed, they were content with their little spot of earth and saw no need for more.

There was an odd kind of a peace in that.

Except that something _had_ changed, something _was_ new. _Him._ Word of his arrival – or return – had obviously spread, and he now found himself the object of attention, drawing stares and whispers from everyone around him. He'd expected this and so had tried to make himself as unobtrusive as possible, forgoing the mail and arms he'd worn like a second skin for half his life and choosing instead a simple coat, shirt and breeches, his only weapon the old hunting knife he now wore instead of his sword … and a few smaller blades hidden here and there.

Old habits died hard.

Still, any new face would be noticed, and, as much as he'd expected it, his skin still crawled from the scrutiny. He wondered if they knew who he was, if anyone here knew _what_ he was, what he'd become since leaving here. His fingers began to itch from the blood he suddenly imagined must be staining them bright red.

He pushed away the thought with an effort. What was done was done, and couldn't be undone. He'd made mistakes, terrible mistakes, and was sorry for them, but still had to live with them. That was his penance. And it would have to be enough, because he had nothing else to offer.

Some of the stares, however, were sharper than most, and he frowned at their source. _Soldiers._ Armed men in bright red surcoats emblazoned with a golden dragon. He stared at them in confusion, not recognizing the arms. As far as he knew, Lord Nathan still ruled here, and his arms were bright blue emblazoned with a silver mailed arm and sword. _The white knight_ , his father had always said.

And these men weren't just household retainers in ceremonial arms. They were _soldiers_ , rough and hardened men – like him – whose swords were made for use. He could see the sharp alertness in their eyes, the readiness of hands that never strayed far from their weapons, the challenge in the way they held themselves.

It was a very distinctive stance.

And he could feel himself slipping back into it. His experienced eyes quickly picked out the soldier in command – a tall, strongly built man about his age with fair hair as long as his – and he smiled slightly and gave a small, half-mocking bow of acknowledgement. The bastard gave a smug grin and returned it.

So much for the pleasantries.

Spotting the tavern across the street, he turned his back on the soldiers and walked over. Besides quenching his thirst, he knew the place – John McRory's, if he remembered right – would be the best place for him to get caught up on life here. That much was a constant no matter where he traveled.

He entered the tavern, a surprisingly large and well-appointed one, with real tables and chairs rather than benches and oak barrels, that was already fairly busy. Huge casks of wine and beer lined the walls, and the enticing aromas of fresh bread and beef stew hung on the air. He was immediately famished.

He was also conscious of the stares and whispers generated by his arrival. Ignoring them with an effort, he made his way to the bar – an actual _bar_ constructed of dark, heavy wood, and not the usual rough construction of raw timbers – and put on his best smile for the young woman there, a fiery beauty with long, flaming red hair and dark green eyes.

“Good day, Miss–?” he greeted, bowing his head slightly.

She rolled her eyes and smirked. “Cora,” she said. “Cora McRory.” She swept her eyes over him and arched a slim brow. “And you'd be Eliot Spencer, back from the wars. We all thought you'd died years ago.”

He winced. “Came close a few times,” he admitted quietly. But he chased the thoughts away with an effort and tipped his head to one side, regarding her thoughtfully. “Cora McRory. So this is your father's tavern?”

She smiled crookedly. “It was. He died a few months ago, and I took it over.” She glanced around. “He poured his whole life into this place. I couldn't see lettin' it go.”

He nodded. “I'm sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you. But,” she smiled warmly, “he led a good life and died at peace with his world. A man can't ask for more than that.” She leaned on the bar. “What would you like?”

He grinned and leaned forward to meet her, his flirtatious nature rising. “What's available?”

She rolled her eyes again and straightened. “Not _that_ , so it's no use you trying with those blue eyes. Though I dare say they've not often failed you.”

He laughed, liking her immediately. “All right, a pint of your best beer, and some of that stew and bread I'm smelling.” He lifted his head and sniffed experimentally. “Rosemary?” he asked.

She arched her brows again. “I'm impressed!”

He grinned and winked. “I discovered that cooking for myself was the best way to avoid being poisoned.”

She huffed out a breath and shook her head. “Sounds like you should have kept better company.” She nodded toward an empty table. “Go sit down and I'll bring it to you.” She winked. “I'll not risk sending one of the other girls until I know what you like to do with your hands.”

He bowed deeply. “My hands belong only to you.”

“Your hands will have to find some other occupation,” she said with mock-sternness. “Now, go sit down. I do have other customers, and your flirting is keeping me from them.”

He straightened and walked away, still grinning. He did so love a fiery redhead.

He made his way to the table she'd indicated – one that would put his back to the wall, he noted, his appreciation of her deepening – and sat down, settling in to wait and watch. As if his interaction with Cora had somehow put them at ease – though more likely it had been _her_ interaction with _him_ – the other men in the tavern had ceased staring at him and gone back to their own conversations, allowing him to study them. All exactly like his father had been – simply dressed, with weathered faces, dirty, callused hands and shoulders and arms thickened by hard work. No soldiers here, no one intent on plunder and power, only honest laborers with open faces and eyes filled with a strength and wisdom he'd somehow missed seeing as a boy.

Or not _entirely_ honest, and not all men.

“May I sit down?”

He looked up at the newcomer who had suddenly appeared at his side. She was tall, dark-haired, dark-eyed and lovely, clad in a rich, flowing dress of deep red and gold. He arched a brow at her garb – something vaguely Eastern – and her accent, which he put at from somewhere in the Balkans. Damien had worked every day of his life to rid himself of that accent.

She'd obviously worked just as hard to acquire it.

“I try never to disappoint a lady,” he said, rising to his feet and gesturing to the chair across from his.

She smiled warmly and sank down gracefully. “And I suspect you rarely do,” she breathed, her accent almost perfect. Only his years spent with Damien allowed him to spot its falseness. “You are new here?”

He shrugged and returned to his own seat. “Yes and no. I was born here, as was my father, and his father, and so on until no one remembers. But I left to be a soldier–” He forced a smile and shrugged again. “And now I'm back.”

“Ah.” She leaned forward and reached for one of his hands. “Do you mind?” she asked belatedly, already turning his palm over in hers. “It is … something of a gift of mine.”

He fought the urge to jerk his hand away and again forced a smile. “Just so long as you don't tell me I'll live a long and happy life and find my heart's desire.”

She arched a slim dark brow and gazed intently at him, as if truly able to read him. “You don't believe in those things?” she asked softly.

He smiled faintly. “Maybe I just don't believe in your ‘gift.' For all you know, I've already found my heart's desire.”

“No,” she breathed, her gaze turning soft and sad, “you haven't. And you don't believe you ever will. You don't even know what that desire _is_.”

Once more, he was tempted to pull his hand away. She might be a fraud, but she was right.

Sensing his unease, she tightened her fingers about his wrist and dropped her gaze to his hand. She studied it for long moments, brushing long, slender fingers lightly over the calluses and small scars left by years of wielding a sword, and shook her dark head slightly.

“So much sadness,” she murmured. “So much blood.” She turned his hand over and studied his nails, shaking her head again. “You've tried so hard to wash it all away, but it's still there.” She squeezed his hand gently and lowered it to the table, lifting her eyes once more to his. “That's why you've returned,” she said. “To get away from the blood, to try and wipe it away in the land where you were born. And,” she smiled mischievously, “to find your heart's desire.”

He laughed at that. “Only if my heart's desire is a meal and a beer,” he joked, ignoring her other words. They'd been so true it hurt. “And you?” he asked. “Who are you? What brings a gifted lady such as yourself to this small, poor village?”

She laughed lightly, her dark eyes shining. “It is not so poor with fine knights such as yourself! But I am Lady Sofia, seer to counts and kings and viziers. I follow my gift wherever it leads me.” She smiled again and rose to her feet. “And this time it led me to you.”

He frowned as she rose. “That's it? You're leaving?”

She laughed again and shrugged. “I have seen what I needed to see. And,” she winked, “your food is coming. I will leave you to eat in peace.”

She drifted away as suddenly as she had appeared, leaving a light trail of perfume in her wake. And leaving _him_ slightly dazzled. He could well imagine Lady Sofia's deep, dark eyes and soft smile enticing secrets out of any man she “read.”

Moments later, Cora appeared with his food and drink on a tray. “I see you met Sophie,” she said as she set his meal before him. “She's quite something, isn't she?”

He shook his head to clear it, then frowned. “Sophie?”

Cora chuckled. “Well, that's the name _we_ know her by. She arrived about a year ago, just after Lord Nathan's wife left. The rumor is that they knew each other before his marriage, and that she heard of his loss and came to help him through it.”

“Who is she?”

“Ah, that's the question, isn't it?” Cora smirked. “Some say she's a disgraced noblewoman or a lady fleeing a bad marriage, some say she was chief courtesan to a powerful emir, some say a dethroned princess.” She shrugged. “But she's besotted with Lord Nathan and she's kind to the folk here, so we really don't care who or what she was before.” She gazed at him and arched a brow. “Everyone's entitled to a fresh start, eh?”

He smiled slightly. That was certainly _his_ hope.

She reached out and patted his shoulder. “Eat up. You'll need your strength if you're to put your father's house to rights.” She grimaced. “It's got to be an unholy mess after all these years.” She started to walk away.

But her words jarred him and he reached out, grabbing her arm to stop her. The house _wasn't_ a mess, and he needed to know why. “Wait,” he said, pulling her back. “There's someone in the village … I guess she lives here … I need to know who she is. Slender, golden hair, she wears a … a patchwork dress.”

_Like a tattered rainbow … or butterfly wings._

Cora stiffened, her eyes narrowing and her face growing hard. “Why?” she asked harshly. “What do you want with her?”

He frowned in confusion at the complete change in her. “I– Nothing. I just … I've seen her, and–” And what? _I want to know why she's been waiting for me all these years?_ “I just want to know her name,” he finished softly.

She studied him for long moments, then relaxed slightly, seeing … something … in his eyes. Exhaling softly, she pulled out the chair Sophie had left and sat down, folding her arms on the table and frowning thoughtfully. “Her name's Parker,” she said at last. “That's the only name she seems to have. We don't even really know where she came from. She just … showed up here one day as a child, with no family that anyone knew of. Archie – Archie Leach, a merchant – took her in and raised her as best he could, but she's always been half wild.” She smiled slightly. “She's a thief, the best anyone's ever seen. But no one can catch her.”

He laughed quietly. A thief. That explained his knife.

Cora looked up sharply, frowning sternly at him. “You treat her gently, you understand?” she demanded. “She's not used to people, to _men_ –” She leveled a finger at him, her green eyes spitting fire. “She's not quite right, everyone around here knows it,” she said harshly, “but that doesn't mean you can just–”

“I won't,” he said quietly, laying a hand over hers and smiling slightly, “I promise. I'd never hurt her.” His smile turned wistful. “I used to watch her dancing in the meadow when I was a boy. I thought she was beautiful.” He gazed intently at Cora. “I'd never hurt her, I swear on my parents' graves.”

She searched his eyes, then nodded slowly, satisfied. “Good. She's a dear soul, if slightly, well, _off_. We all look out for her.” She smiled fondly. “Even if she does steal from us. But if it's something we really need or can't spare, she gives it back.”

“I know,” he breathed, thinking again of his knife. He smiled at her. “Thank you.”

She nodded, then rose to her feet. “If you need anything else, just wave.” She turned and walked away.

He sighed and tucked into his stew. _Parker._ It was an odd name, but it suited her. He smiled slightly in sudden realization. And now he'd stolen a bit of _her_.

The bread and stew were even more delicious than he'd expected, and he ate like a man who'd not had a meal in days. The beer was rich and thick and flavorful, and he wondered yet again why he'd ever left this place.

But his pleasure in the meal was disrupted by the loud entrance of three men into the tavern, complete with raucous laughter and the banging of fists on the bar. Everyone went silent, a few men slipped fearfully out the door, and Cora herself went pale.

_Shit._

He sighed and put his spoon down, sitting back to watch. By some instinct all its own, his hand crept to the knife at his belt and slipped off the thong securing it in its sheath.

“Cora, my love!” shouted the man in the lead, tall and dark and Irish by the sound of him. “I've come to collect me fee, and I'll have a beer while I'm waitin'.”

Eliot shifted his gaze to her. She stood straight and unmoving, her chin high, her arms crossed against her chest. “I owe you no fee, Doyle,” she said firmly. “And if you want a beer, you'll pay like everyone else.”

The man called Doyle laughed aloud, his men grinning behind him. “Darlin', I explained to you how all this works when your Da died. You have to pay the merchants' tax. The one that pays _me_ to keep _you_ –” he reached out and swatted a jug of wine off the bar and onto the floor– “safe from thieves and brigands.”

Eliot stiffened but kept to his seat, waiting to see whether he would be needed. He had no doubt that Cora could handle herself against the drunkards and troublemakers common to any tavern, but he also knew men like Doyle. Under Damien, he'd _led_ men like Doyle.

But Cora marched out from behind the bar to confront Doyle, seemingly unafraid of him. “You'll not get a penny from me for your so-called ‘tax,’” she spat, her own brogue deepening. “I told you that the last time I kicked your arse out of my tavern, and I say it again now. The only thieves and brigands I need defending from are you and your bastard friends–”

Her words ended on a sharp, pained yelp as Doyle grabbed her and jerked her to him, shaking her roughly. “That's all I'll hear from you!” he seethed through clenched teeth, digging his fingers into her arms and shaking her harder still. “I've tolerated your defiance for as long as I will–”

And it was enough.

“Let her go,” Eliot ordered quietly, rising to his feet. Every eye in the room turned to him, including Doyle's, and he returned the man's stare evenly. “She said she doesn't owe you any money, so just let her go and get out.”

Doyle did release Cora then, shoving her away so hard she fell against the bar and to the floor, and turned to face Eliot. “And just who the hell are you?” he sneered. “One more farmer trying to prove he's a man?”

Eliot chuckled grimly. Either Doyle was an idiot, or he was too blinded by his arrogance to understand what he was facing. Either way, he was in for a painful lesson.

“I told you to get out,” he said. “On your feet or on your ass,” he shrugged, “it doesn't matter to me.”

Doyle laughed at that. “Did ya hear?” he crowed over his shoulder to his two men, though his eyes never truly left Eliot. “This fine hero is defending Cora's honor.” He smirked. “Though we all know he's a bit too late for that.”

Eliot narrowed his eyes at the insult to Cora, but kept his anger in check. Doyle was goading him, and he'd not give the bastard the upper hand.

Doyle started across the tavern to Eliot. “Playing the brave knight to win the lady's affection, are you?” He swept his gaze over Eliot, then frowned deeply in mock confusion. “But I don't see your sword,” he jeered. “What's a knight without a sword?”

Eliot grinned coldly, showing a hint of teeth. “Don't need a sword,” he answered, folding his arms against his chest. “I wouldn't sully my blade with your blood.”

Chairs scraped against the floor as men hurried to get out of the way. Sophie rushed to Cora and helped her to her feet, then guided her to a table in the corner.

Eliot gave a cursory glance around the tavern to familiarize himself with the space, then turned his attention back to Doyle. No weapons were visible on him, but that didn't mean he was unarmed; Eliot himself had several blades out of sight but within reach. And the bastard didn't seem above stabbing an opponent in the back. Eliot grinned.

Then again, neither was he.

Doyle continued advancing, cracking his knuckles as he did, clearly used to intimidating his victims. “I don't recall seeing you around here before,” he said. “I'll have to teach you how things go–”

Eliot didn't wait any longer. Irritated by Doyle's bluster, and still furious at his handling of Cora, he launched himself forward and struck first, dealing Doyle a vicious uppercut to the chin that snapped his head back and sent him spinning into his men. Not giving him a chance to recover, Eliot lunged forward, grabbed him and slammed him face-down into the bar, imprisoning Doyle between himself and the bar. He jammed his left forearm down across the back of Doyle's neck, shoved a leg between Doyle's and pressed his knee to his crotch, then grabbed the man's right wrist and twisted almost until he felt bones snap.

“Listen to me, you son of a bitch,” he growled into Doyle's ear. “I don't know who you are, and I don't care. But you _don't_ treat women that way, do you understand?” Doyle whimpered, his nose streaming blood, and Eliot twisted his wrist a bit more while shoving his knee further into his crotch. “ _Do you understand me?_ ” he hissed. Doyle whimpered again and nodded. “Good,” Eliot said, still not releasing him. “Because if I see it again, I'll break every bone in your hands. To start with.” He shifted his arm and grabbed the back of Doyle's collar, hauling him upright. “Now,” he ordered, “apologize to the lady, and promise it won't happen again.”

Doyle snarled out a thick, defiant curse, and Eliot rolled his eyes and slammed him back down against the bar. “I said,” he drove his knee into Doyle's crotch, “ _apologize!_ ”

Doyle howled in agony and would have slid to the floor but for Eliot's hold on him. “Let's try this again,” Eliot seethed through gritted teeth. “Apologize to Miss McRory, promise her it won't happen again, and then get the hell out of here. Understand?”

Doyle moaned but nodded, and Eliot dragged him upright again. This time Doyle showed no defiance, merely the pain and shame of a beaten man. “I'm s– sorry, Miss McRory,” he stammered, his voice thickened by split, bleeding lips and a broken nose. “It won't happen again.” A hand twisted in his collar, and he flinched. “I promise.”

Eliot smiled grimly. “I'm sure I can trust you to be a man of your word,” he warned in a low voice. “Now,” he released Doyle, “go.”

Gasping and limping and holding his badly wrenched wrist against his chest, Doyle hobbled out of the tavern, followed closely by his two shocked henchmen. A well of quiet murmurs rose in his wake, and more than a few grimly admiring looks were directed at the man who'd cowed him.

But Eliot didn't notice. Once he was certain Doyle and his men were gone, he hurried to where Cora was sitting and knelt down next to her, looking up at her in concern. “You all right?” he asked worriedly.

She smiled wryly. “I'll likely have bruises, but no worse, thanks to you.” Her smile faded and she sighed and shook her head. “But you shouldn't have done it. Doyle's a protected man here. He's been allowed to run wild for too long, and he'll not accept defeat.” She reached out and laid a hand against Eliot's cheek. “You've made a dangerous enemy, I'm afraid.”

He took her hand in his and pressed it to his lips. “I've had dangerous enemies before,” he teased, “and for a much poorer cause.” He sobered then and frowned. “You said he's protected. By whom?”

She scowled deeply and spat on the floor. “By that upstart Sterl– _Lord James_ ,” she corrected herself contemptuously. “You've likely seen his men prowling the streets. Soldiers in red coats. Bastards, all of them, and Quinn, their commander, the biggest bastard of all.” She eyed Eliot worriedly. “You watch yourself. He'll hear of this, and he won't be pleased.”

Eliot narrowed his eyes thoughtfully. “Big man, with long, fair hair?” When Cora nodded, he grinned. “I've seen him.” He winked. “And I've dealt with my share of bastards before. I'll be all right.”

She sighed, still worried. “The Lord James will hear of it, too,” she warned. “And _he_ won't be pleased. He controls Doyle, Quinn, and others like them. He sends them out to collect his 'taxes' and 'fees,' saying the money goes for our protection. But when we _don't_ pay–” She huffed out a sharp breath. “ _That's_ when we need protecting. From _him_.”

Eliot frowned. “But what about Lord Nathan?” he asked. “Why doesn't he do something? You're his people.”

Cora sighed heavily and shook her head, her eyes filling with sorrow. “He doesn't … get out much,” she said softly, sadly. “His son died two years ago, and, since then, he hasn't cared about much of anything. It only got worse last year, when his wife, the Lady Margaret, left him to go back to her family's lands. The boy's death broke both of them, but Lord Nathan most of all.” She shrugged. “He withdrew from everything. And with him as good as gone, Sterling began pushing his way in.” She snorted. “Purchased a title and went from _Sterling_ to _Lord James_ just like that. And he set his sights on everything that used to be Lord Nathan's. Now he's got his men, led by Quinn, collecting his taxes and enforcing his laws. 'Keeping order,' he calls it.” She spat again. “Being a damned tyrant's what _I_ call it.”

Eliot sighed. Just what he needed in his life – another Damien Moreau.

She grabbed his hand and held tightly to it, staring intently at him. “You watch yourself,” she said again. “He won't like what you did here.”

He forced a smile and took Cora's hand again, squeezing it gently. “I'll be careful,” he assured her. “I promise. I didn't come back here to cause trouble. All I want is peace and quiet.”

She sighed and shook her head. “That's what we all want,” she breathed. “But there doesn't seem to be much of it these days. Still,” she forced a smile and rose to her feet, “you did me a favor by runnin' that bastard out of here. The least I can do is get you another beer.”

He got to his feet and followed her to the bar, wondering just what in the hell he'd gotten himself into.

  


By the time he left Cora's, the news of what he'd done to Doyle had spread. The townfolk still stared and whispered, but he noted a subtle change in their attitude toward him, with faint smiles and more welcoming looks replacing the earlier suspicion and distrust.

The soldiers, however …

He sighed and shook his head. He could see them watching him wherever he went, _following_ him, never approaching, but making no effort to disguise their presence. He knew what they were doing, had done it more than a few times himself. They were challenging him, hoping to goad him into a confrontation. Once upon a time, he would have obliged them.

But not now.

Willing himself to ignore them, he entered the apothecary shop, smiling and relaxing as the fragrant aroma of countless herbs engulfed him. He needed to replenish his supplies, at least until he could begin growing his own, both for medicinal and culinary purposes.

He hadn't been lying when he'd told Cora he knew how to cook, or why he'd learned.

Looking around the shop, however, he saw far more than the expected herbs, potions and unguents. Casks of spices, many of which he recognized from the Levant and the Orient, sat on shelves, and small tables held bolts of cloth both plain and exotic. A selection of blades, from small knives to swords, hung on one wall, soaps and perfumes lent their scents to the air, and baubles of colored glass winked in the sunlight.

For a moment, he felt as if he were back in a market in Constantinople or Damascus.

Then another shelf caught his eye and drew him forward. Displayed before him were a small curved, jeweled dagger, heavy gold cross on its chain and a leather-bound prayer book. Intrigued, he picked up the book and opened it … and almost laughed aloud when he read the inscription, penned in an elegant hand.

_For the greater glory of God, and in the Holy Name of His Son, let these prayers rise to Heaven and confirm before the world the acceptance of the True Faith by his faithful servant, Caliph Abu ibn Sayar._

He carefully turned the smooth vellum pages, admiring the intricate illustrations and meticulous printing of the prayers, seeing where tears or sweat had hit and slightly blurred the ink, where years of contact with hands and fingers had worn and discolored the pages. It was beautiful.

He chuckled and shook his head. And a truly masterful forgery.

He'd seen the book, or various incarnations of it, throughout the Levant, sold to pilgrims and soldiers as a reminder of the power of their faith and the righteousness of their cause. But they were _all_ fakes. Caliph Abu ibn Sayar had never existed, much less taken up the Christian faith. The books were just one more fraud perpetrated on the gullible.

Like the concept of “holy war.”

“You like it?”

The voice startled him and he turned abruptly, almost dropping the book and instinctively reaching for his sword. Which just now was a hunting knife. But his astonishment only deepened when he saw the owner of the voice.

A young man, tall … and black. He'd seen such dark skin before, but never here. And the accent was all wrong. The young man spoke as everyone here did, and not with the soft, musical lilt of Arabia. Eliot shook his head to clear it, to try and bring his colliding worlds into order.

“It's fake,” was all he could manage to utter. “I mean, it's beautiful, very well done, but … it's a forgery.”

The young man laughed and shook his head. “Of course it's a forgery!” he crowed. “Everybody knows there's no such thing as _The Confession of ibn Sayar_! But,” he waggled his eyebrows, his dark eyes gleaming, “it's a _brilliant_ forgery, right?”

Eliot frowned deeply, confused. “Wait, you _know_ it's a fake? And you're selling it anyway?”

The young man heaved a sigh and rolled his eyes. “Of course I know. _I did it._ ” He reached for the book and opened it. “Look at that ink, those stains, this paper.” He looked sharply at Eliot. “You know how long it took me to get all this right?” He pursed his lips and shook his head. “I thought I was _never_ gonna get the aging right!”

Eliot blinked, still staring at him. “The air's a lot drier down there,” he said absently.

The young man sighed. “Yeah. Took me forever to figure out how to compensate for that– Hey!” he said sharply. “You were down there? In the Holy Land?”

Eliot winced; he couldn't recall much that had been “holy” about it. “Yeah.”

The young man grinned again; it seemed to be his natural state. “Then I've got something that should interest you.” He grabbed Eliot's arm – either not realizing or simply not caring about the danger of doing so – and pulled him to another corner of the shop. “Name's Alec Hardison, by the way,” he introduced himself. “Most folks just call me Hardison. This is Archie's shop, but I run it for him when he's off … um … finding new things.”

Eliot looked up sharply. “Archie?” he asked, recalling the name Cora had spoken. “Archie _Leach_?”

“Yeah. You know him?”

Eliot cleared his throat and shook his head. “No, I–” What? _I heard he fostered a thief who's been haunting my dreams for twenty years and I need him to tell me how I can get her to stop running away from me so I can talk to her?_ Yeah, that would go well. “I just heard his name,” he finished weakly, then forced a smile. “I just got back, and I'm still trying to learn who's who.”

“Hm,” Hardison grunted. “All right.” He stopped then and all but shoved Eliot forward, grinning again. “ _Voilà,_ ” he crowed, gesturing to the wall.

Eliot looked, blinked, and frowned. “It's a map,” he said.

Hardison sighed and rolled his eyes. “Of course it's a _map_!” he said with irritation. “But it is a beautifully and painstakingly drawn Pilgrim's Map of the Holy Land! _From_ the Holy Land,” he said pointedly, winking broadly. “Look,” he pushed Eliot closer, “you can see everything. All the places where Jesus performed his miracles, the rivers and cities–”

“It's wrong,” Eliot said simply.

“I– Wait.” Hardison stiffened and scowled down at him. “Did you say my map is _wrong_? I will have you know–”

“It's wrong,” Eliot said again, studying it with the same attention to detail that he would any battle map. “Look,” he stepped closer and pointed to a region, “this town should be on this side of the river, this river doesn't even flow through here, and these hills are off by a league. And this town–” He winced and pulled his hand away. “It doesn't exist any more.”

Hardison stared at him. “A whole town is gone. You mind telling me how an entire town just goes away?”

Eliot flinched. He _did_ mind, very much so. One more thing he'd have to answer for.

Understanding, and a fair bit of horror, dawned in Hardison's eyes, and he swallowed hard. “Oh,” he breathed, studying Eliot closely. “So you–”

“What?” Eliot demanded harshly, defensively. “I _what_?”

But Hardison shook his head and raised his hands. “Nothing. Nothing. I just–” He grinned again. “None of my business, right?”

“Right,” Eliot agreed gruffly, though he somehow doubted that usually stopped the young man.

“Right. Well.” Hardison returned his gaze to the map, then smiled and nodded. “I'll just say this was _before_ the earthquake.”

Eliot gaped. “ _What_ earthquake? There was no earthquake–”

“Ssh!” Hardison hissed sharply. “People don't need to know that!”

Now Eliot rolled _his_ eyes. “You can't just sell people a map you know is wrong! Pilgrims _depend_ on these maps–”

“You saying every _other_ map is right?” Hardison asked pointedly.

Eliot sighed in defeat. He'd seen some spectacularly wrong maps in his day. But he wasn't about to admit that to Hardison. “You need to correct it,” he said stubbornly.

Hardison shrugged and crossed his arms. “I don't know. I kinda like it.” He cocked his head to one side and studied his creation. “It has a nice artistic flow. Look at the symmetry–”

“It's _wrong_ ,” Eliot insisted, not at all certain why this mattered, but unable to drop the argument. “You just don't want to admit that.”

“I don't have to,” Hardison said serenely. “Because it's _not_ wrong. Not since the earthquake.”

Eliot gave a harsh cry of frustration. “ _There was no fucking earthquake!_ ”

Hardison gasped sharply and shrank back, pressing a hand to his chest. “Such _language_! Someone needs to calm down.”

Eliot growled and turned away, stalking across the shop to where the herbs were hung to dry. “I need some of these,” he spat through clenched teeth.

Hardison wandered lazily after him. “Is there a 'please' in there somewhere?” he inquired.

Eliot was sorely tempted to draw his knife and start gutting. “I need some of these … _please_ ,” he seethed.

Hardison smiled angelically. “See? That wasn't so hard, was it? Your manners need work, my friend.”

Eliot almost choked. “I am _not_ your friend,” he ground out.

Hardison waved a hand. “Not yet, but just wait until you get to know me. I am irresistible. You, however–” He sighed heavily and shook his head. “You need work.”

Eliot leveled a stare at him. “I could kill you right here, right now, and no one would ever know,” he warned. “And then I'd burn your stupid map. Which is _wrong_!” he added as Hardison squeaked in horror. Not at the threat to himself, but at the threat to his beloved – and incredibly inaccurate – map.

Earthquake. Like hell.

“You are a savage,” Hardison muttered as he began gathering he herbs Eliot had indicated. “A _savage_! With no appreciation of my talent. That map is a piece of art–”

“That map's a piece of crap,” Eliot said lazily. He wandered around the shop to see what else he might need, casually picking up and moving things he _didn't_ need just to keep Hardison busy restoring them to their rightful places. Somehow, making the young man grumble just felt … right.

And Hardison _did_ grumble. A lot. He also talked. A _lot_. In just a short time, Eliot knew everything about everyone in the village, without ever asking a question that he could recall. Archie Leach was a traveling merchant with a talent for “acquiring” exotic goods (he was a thief, too) who had “found” the orphaned Alec on his travels and brought him back here to raise him (the man seemed to collect orphans). Sophie/Lady Sofia/Katherine/Duchess Charlotte/She of a Thousand Names was whoever and whatever she wanted or needed to be at the moment (probably a thief, too; the village seemed to collect _them_ ) and desperately loved the Lord Nathan, who at the moment seemed indifferent to his people's suffering under Lord James Sterling (more spitting; it seemed almost an extension of the man's name with the people here). The local constable, Patrick Bonanno, was a good man who tried to keep the peace, but was powerless against Sterling's men, all mercenaries hired to enforce Sterling's will.

After hearing Hardison's thoughts on them, Eliot decided against sharing any of _his_ past. For some reason, irritating as Hardison could be, he found himself enjoying the younger man's company – and truly enjoyed needling him – and didn't want to risk ruining that.

It was strange, the feeling he was getting here, the odd sense of acceptance and belonging he was finding with these people – Hardison, with his over-sized personality, Cora with her wit and warmth, Sophie with her soft, secretive smile and knowing eyes, and Parker, who called to him without saying a word. By the time he left the crowded little shop, he'd purchased more goods than he'd anticipated, some needed, some not, all accompanied by stories of their origin from Hardison, more than half of which he was certain were lies.

Like that damned map.

Which, if he did nothing else with the rest of his life, he was going to _force_ Hardison to correct.

  


Hardison watched through the window as Eliot disappeared down the street, a thoughtful frown on his face. He'd heard of the man who'd returned home after twenty years away at war – by now, _everyone_ had heard of him – but the man he'd seen in the shop wasn't at all what he'd expected. He'd thought Spencer would be more like Quinn – arrogant, swaggering, _hard_ – and while the man was undoubtedly dangerous, he'd also been strangely … likable.

In a gruff, prickly, ill-tempered and bad-mannered sort of way, of course.

And he had absolutely _no_ appreciation for the fine art of map-making.

Hardison snorted sharply and turned away from the window … and let out a sharp cry of alarm as he found himself face to face with Archie and Parker. He fell back against a shelf, almost knocking everything off it, and clapped a hand to his heart, staring at both of them in mingled shock and irritation. It was bad enough that _Parker_ went around on silent feet, popping up or dropping down out of nowhere and regularly startling him out of his wits. But Archie was an _old man_ who walked with a _cane_ , for God's sake! How the hell was _he_ still able to sneak up on anyone?

His life was so unfair.

“Don't you two have anything better to do than scare me into an early grave?” he grumbled, pulling himself upright and gathering his tattered dignity about him. “Seriously, that is just _rude_!”

Archie bestowed a fond smile on him. “Next time we'll make some noise,” he assured the young man.

Hardison grunted. “That's what you said _last_ time,” he pointed out.

“That was him!” Parker breathed, pushing past Hardison to the window and staring out. “Did you see him?”

Hardison sighed. “He was right here, Parker. It would've been hard _not_ to see him.”

She let the logic pass by unnoticed. “He's pretty, isn't he?”

Archie and Hardison exchanged uneasy glances. They'd both heard from her of her returned “boy,” and had begun worrying for her. Eliot Spencer was no “boy,” and, while they knew little about him, they doubted he was anything like her romantic notions of him.

Men did not return from twenty years of war unscathed.

“Parker,” Archie said softly, gently, “you don't know anything about him.” He regarded her worriedly. Parker wasn't a fool, wasn't naive, but she didn't always understand people, and that made her vulnerable. Especially to a man who was undoubtedly experienced in all manner of things. “He's not the boy who left here all those years ago.”

She turned to face him, lifting her chin defiantly. “I know that, Archie. People change. But … his eyes are sad. I think he just wants to be happy again. And I want him to be happy. That's not wrong, is it?”

“Of course it's not wrong,” Hardison assured her. For all that Parker was older than he, still he felt deeply protective of her and was worried that her fascination with Eliot Spencer would only hurt her in the end. “Just … be careful, that's all we're saying. Men like him– He's seen things, _done_ things–”

She stared at him as if he'd betrayed her. “You just said we don't know anything about him!” she said sharply. “You have no idea what he's done! You can't judge him–”

“We're not judging him,” Archie said. “We're just being realistic. And careful.” He smiled slightly and reached out, gently brushing a stray lock of hair out of her eyes. “We just don't want to see you hurt.”

She gazed at him and nodded faintly. She could understand that, really she could. But she also understood, as they clearly couldn't, that she was in no danger.

Whatever else he might have done in his life, Eliot would never hurt her.

  


“I'm sorry.” Sterling leaned forward in his chair and spoke quietly; much too quietly, to anyone who knew him. “Would you mind _explaining_ that to me again?”

Off to one side, where he was leaning against the wall, Quinn snickered, clearly enjoying this, but Sterling ignored him. For now, his whole attention was fixed on Doyle, who stood battered and bruised before him.

“The bastard must be workin' for Cora!” Doyle spat. “Stopped me from collectin' from her, said I'd not be gettin' a penny more from her. Then he attacked me!”

Sterling stared at him in disgust, his mouth curling in contempt. Doyle had his uses, but _thinking_ clearly wasn't among them. He was a braggart and a bully who relied on intimidation rather than persuasion and counted on his victims being too frightened of him to fight back. Clearly he'd miscalculated this time.

“One man did this,” he said scathingly, waving a hand at Doyle's battered appearance. Both the man's eyes were blackened, his nose was broken and swollen and his lips split. “There were three of you, and _one man_ did this.” He suddenly shot out of his chair and dealt Doyle a vicious blow across an already bruised cheek. “ _What the hell am I paying you for?_ ” he roared as Doyle toppled to the floor. “And _you_!” He whirled abruptly on Quinn as the soldier laughed again, pinning him with a withering stare. “Where were _you_ when this was happening?”

Quinn straightened and bobbed his head in a show of subservience. “I was doing what you pay _me_ for,” he reported, “keeping an eye on things. I saw Spencer, but he didn't look like he was going to cause any trouble, so I didn't see any need to follow him.” He lifted his head and arched his brow. “You told me to keep the brawling to a minimum, remember?” he asked, then slanted a mocking glance at Doyle and shrugged. “It didn't occur to me he'd have trouble taking money from a girl.”

Sterling spat out a curse. “Yes, well, it wasn't the girl who did this to him, was it?” he seethed. “Who is this Spencer?”

Quinn lifted two fair brows. “Eliot Spencer? You've not heard of him?”

Sterling scowled deeply. “If I knew who he was,” he said through clenched teeth, “I wouldn't have asked.” Christ, were _all_ his men simpletons? “ _Enlighten_ me.”

Quinn shrugged again and went back to leaning against the wall, crossing his arms against his chest. “ _Sir_ Eliot Spencer,” he said. “He's a soldier. A mercenary. And something of a legend in Italy and the Levant.” A grudging respect colored his voice. “I heard of him in Sicily, when I was serving under a former commander of his named Guttman. He's supposed to be a hell of a fighter.” He shrugged again. “He took up with a man named Damien Moreau a few years ago, helped Moreau build an empire.” A smirk tugged at his lips. “There's a story that one city surrendered to Moreau without a fight just because they heard Moreau was sending Spencer to take it. Apparently the man was all four horsemen of the apocalypse rolled into one.”

Sterling exhaled sharply and began to pace, troubled by Quinn's description. What the hell was such a man doing _here_? Lévèrage had been at peace for the past decade or so; there was no work for mercenaries … other than the kind for which he employed Quinn and his men. And men like Spencer didn't come without a price. So far as he knew, no one around here but him could afford that price.

Except–

 _No._ He banished the thought as soon as it arose. Nathan could certainly afford it, but why would he? He'd been a virtual recluse since his son had died, had for two years now ignored his responsibilities as lord and seemingly forgotten the duties he owed his people. He'd ceased collecting taxes and enforcing laws, had allowed the local roads, bridges and ferry crossings to fall into disrepair. Poachers had begun hunting wherever they damned well pleased, and outlaws had taken over roadways. All because the great Lord Nathan had allowed himself to sink into his grief.

Yes, of course, it was unspeakably tragic that his son had died – as a father himself, he couldn't begin to imagine that pain – but, damn it, that did _not_ excuse the man's neglect of his lands and people! And the _only_ reason _anything_ around here had improved was because _James Sterling_ had stepped in and made it so.

Not that any of Nathan's people appreciated that; oh, no. Apparently they preferred to wither and die under the neglect of their grief-stricken lord to the interest _he_ had taken in their wretched little lives. And, yes, fine, perhaps he _did_ profit from the taxes he collected, perhaps he had expanded his holdings by “acquiring” land from those who simply couldn't pay their taxes, but why not? After all, _he_ was the one who'd restored order to their lives, _he_ was the one who kept them safe. Why shouldn't he get a little something in return? That was how things worked in the world.

Except that Nathan's people didn't see it that way … and apparently neither did Nathan.

He frowned and thought of the man. They'd been friends of a sort once, years ago, and he'd admired Nathan's shrewd intelligence. But the man had allowed himself to become crippled by the losses of his son and his wife, had allowed not only his life but the lives of his people to fall into ruin. Yet now that someone else had stepped in to repair the damage, he was so offended that he had finally stirred himself out of his alcoholic haze and hired himself a mercenary.

But to do _what_ , exactly? Spencer might be something of a legend, but he was still only one man. Against Quinn and an entire force of soldiers.

What the bloody hell was Nathan up to?

“Father?”

The soft voice interrupted his thoughts, and he turned to see Olivia standing in the entrance to the hall, holding a familiar chessboard. For a few moments, thoughts of Nathan and his irritation at Doyle vanished. He'd always loved Olivia, but in the year or so since her mother's death he'd come to treasure her more deeply than ever. She was as intelligent as she was lovely and insightful beyond her years. The happiest part of his day was the hours they spent playing chess and simply talking about whatever interested her at the moment. “Is it that time already?”

“I was afraid you'd forgotten,” she said. Then she smiled impishly and added, “Or that you just didn't want to risk my beating you again.”

He scowled in mock indignation. “Don't be impertinent! You got lucky and you know it.”

She smirked and held up the board. “There's one way to find out.”

“Then lead the way, my lady,” he invited, bowing his head and holding out a hand.

Olivia laughed lightly and turned away, starting toward the smaller chamber where they regularly played. 

He watched her go, then turned back to Quinn. “Find out everything you can about this Eliot Spencer,” he ordered. “I want to know who he is and why he's here.” He started to go after his daughter but paused briefly beside Doyle, who still lay on the floor cradling his battered face in his hands. “And get this idiot out of my hall.” 

  


The days quickly arranged themselves into a kind of peaceful order. Eliot spent most of his time working on his father's house (strange that he couldn't think of it in any other way), repairing the roof and fixing the walls, and replanting his mother's garden. He rediscovered the forests and streams of his youth, hunting and fishing, or sometimes spent lazy hours lying in the meadow where he'd first dreamed of becoming a soldier, now staring at the clouds and trying to forget where those dreams had taken him.

He went into the village to buy what he couldn't grow or make himself, flirting with Cora, arguing with Hardison and sharing stories with Archie of the places they'd seen, and trying – without any success – to hide away those parts of himself that Sophie's deep, dark eyes insisted on dredging forth.

And always, always there was Parker.

At first she merely watched him from a distance, remaining just at the edge of the yard while he toiled on the roof or at the walls, never speaking a word. Gradually, though, she began drifting closer, until he could lean out over the edge of the roof, look down and see her–

Usually either eating part of the food he'd laid out for his midday meal or rifling through his belongings.

Well, she was a thief. And apparently part magpie.

He'd discovered early on her love for shiny things, and so began hiding small treasures for her to find. They were mostly trinkets he'd collected over the years without really knowing why – unless some part of him had always meant them for her – and he was delighted by the joy she took in them. He told her the stories behind them, or sometimes simply made up something, and, to his surprise, and sometimes horror, discovered that he was telling her more and more about himself in the process.

But if she were at all troubled by what she heard, she never showed it. She simply listened to him and let him tell her what he would, occasionally asking questions but never pressing. In her own way she became his confessor, her presence and smiles the only absolution he needed.

She talked to him, too, about Archie and Hardison and the strange little family they'd made, about Sophie, who seemed to be at once mother, sister and friend, about the treasures she stole and the stories she made up for them, about the butterflies who, before him, had been the only ones to hear those stories. Sometimes she danced for him, to music only she could hear.

Sometimes they danced together.

And she warned him about Quinn.

Quinn was asking questions about him, trying to find out who he was and why he was here. The town's people, who'd accepted Eliot as one of their own, gave as little away as they could, protecting him as they did each other, but Parker knew it wouldn't last. Quinn served Sterling. If Quinn was asking, it meant Sterling wanted answers. What Sterling wanted, Sterling usually got.

And if Sterling wanted Eliot …

It angered Eliot that she and everyone else should live in such fear of Sterling, that he should have such power over their lives. And that Lord Nathan, their rightful protector, should be so absent. But as yet the man refused to bestir himself to come to their aid.

Which left only Eliot. Parker tried to talk him out of it. Hardison, Archie, Cora and Sophie tried, as did Constable Bonanno. Hell, once or twice even Father Paul, the village priest, stepped in to counsel peace and patience.

But it was wrong and he knew it. Letting matters go on as they were was wrong. Letting Sterling grab power that wasn't his was wrong. Letting good people suffer under burdens they should never have to bear was wrong.

And after all his years with Damien, he was sick and tired of doing wrong.

  


Quinn lay on the hill overlooking the house below and smiled to himself as he watched the couple laughing and playing in the yard. She had taken something of his and he was trying to get it back, chasing her as she danced away, then dancing with her when he caught her.

He'd found Eliot Spencer's weakness.

He knew the girl; the blonde thief, Parker. Oh, he'd never caught her – she was too good, too quick – but he knew her nonetheless. God knew he'd chased her often enough. She'd always had the village protecting her, though.

And now she apparently had Spencer as well.

He smirked. How sweet. And how stupid. A man of Spencer's experience should have known better. Love might be pleasant, but it was a luxury he couldn't afford. It made him soft. Vulnerable.

And it gave his enemies the perfect weapon to use against him.


	5. To Catch a Thief

Parker stood silently in one corner and watched as Archie moved aimlessly about his shop, absently fingering the various fine items he had on display, his eyes distant and his expression grim. Worry filled her, for she knew what troubled his thoughts.

Doyle and his men were back. They'd all had a reprieve while he'd nursed his injuries and wounded pride, but that was over. He'd returned yesterday and was getting revenge for his humiliation by taking even more from them. He was hitting shops at random and showing ever more viciousness, brutalizing merchants and ransacking or simply destroying their shops when they wouldn't or couldn't pay. Fear and fury were rising through the town like a fever as everyone wondered who would be next. Some wanted to send for Eliot in the hope he might send Doyle packing. Others feared that would simply bring Quinn and his soldiers out against them all. Still others were demanding they all go to Lord Nathan and _make_ him do something.

All the while Doyle continued his predations, backed by Quinn and his soldiers, squeezing ever more tightly.

And now Archie was feeling the pressure. Doyle hadn't hit his shop yet, but they both knew it was inevitable. And the longer the man waited, the blacker and heavier his shadow grew.

“Archie?” she called softly, fearfully. “It'll be all right. Just give him the money-”

“Yes, well, that's just it, my dear,” he said softly, turning to gaze sadly at her. “I'm not sure I _have_ the money. His extortion rates have always been high. If he raises them now-” He sighed heavily and looked around, shaking his head slowly. “I don't know that I'll be able to pay him.”

She stiffened and swallowed hard as his words sent a tendril of fear through her. She'd seen what happened when someone couldn't pay Doyle's price. And he'd never liked Archie. Once or twice he'd tried treating _her_ the way he did the serving girls at Cora's, and each time Archie had taken his cane to him.

All Doyle would need now was the barest excuse …

The front door opened and Hardison came in, frowning deeply and shaking his head. “It's getting ugly out there,” he said in a low voice. “Doyle was in Peggy's shop, and when he got rough with her Hurley went in to stop him. Doyle's men started beating on him, and Quinn and his men had to step in before a brawl erupted. Quinn did pull Doyle's men off, eventually, and now Peggy's taking care of Hurley. But tempers are fraying.”

Archie exhaled sharply. “Where is Constable Bonanno?”

“He's gone to Lord Nathan.” He snorted derisively. “Like _that's_ gonna do any good.”

Parker bristled. “Lord Nathan's a good man-”

“Who hasn't bothered to do anything for us in a long time,” Hardison pointed out. “The man doesn't care.” He hesitated a moment, his gaze flicking to Archie, then said quietly, “Folks are gettin' more insistent about sending for Eliot.”

“No,” Archie said quietly but firmly. Eliot hadn't been in town lately, was busy with repairs to his house and had no idea what was happening. Archie wanted to keep it that way. “That's what Quinn wants. It's why he's letting Doyle go as far as he is. He's _hoping_ we'll bring Eliot into this so he'll have an excuse to fight him. And he has a whole army at his back, while Eliot is just one man. They'd kill him.”

Parker gasped softly as Archie's words hit her hard. Hardison rushed to her side and gathered her into his arms, holding her close against him.

“It's all right,” he soothed, staring furiously at Archie over her bowed head. “We won't let that happen. We'll keep him out of it.”

“How?” she asked in a small, frightened voice. “He'll hear about it, you know he will. And if he thinks Doyle is threatening Archie, he'll get angry-”

“Why would Doyle threaten Archie?” Hardison asked in confusion. “I mean, I know Doyle doesn't like him, but-”

“Because I don't think I have enough money to pay him,” Archie sighed. “You know I don't make much in this shop. I give away as much as I sell, and most of what I have is simply too expensive for the people here.” He smiled wryly and shrugged. “I put it out so people will have something beautiful to look at, not because I expect anyone to buy it.”

Hardison frowned, his confusion deepening. “But you go places. _Obtain_ things.”

“You mean steal things,” Parker said, her voice muffled against his chest.

Hardison huffed out a breath and rolled his eyes. “I was trying _not_ to say it out loud.”

Archie laughed. “Call it what you will, I haven't obtained - or stolen,” he added quickly as Parker raised her head and opened her mouth, “anything for money in a very long time. I haven't needed to. I've got everything I need here. Now,” he shrugged, “I simply take things because I like them.” He smiled and waved a hand to take in the contents of his shop. “I put them out for others to enjoy as well.”

Hardison stared at him in disbelief. “What kind of a thief steals things to show and not to sell? How does that even work?”

Archie lifted his head and set both hands on the head of his cane, regarding Hardison with a regal air. “I retired years ago, you know that. I'm now an honest merchant-”

“Who still steals but doesn't sell,” Hardison countered. “I don't think Doyle's gonna be real impressed by that distinction.”

Archie sighed again, his shoulders slumping and his face setting into worried lines. “No,” he murmured, “I don't think he will, either. But I've got to think of something.”

Hardison could think of only one thing. “There's Eliot,” he suggested quietly. “He'd come, I know he would. And Doyle wouldn't get a penny. Hell, he wouldn't even get a foot in here-”

“ _No,_ ” Archie said firmly, fixing a compelling stare on Hardison. “I refuse, do you hear me? I will not be the bait by which he is lured into a confrontation with Quinn. And you will not tell him, do you hear me?”

Hardison exhaled sharply. “Archie-”

“ _Do you hear me?_ ” Archie asked sharply, his eyes boring into Hardison's.

Hardison sighed and nodded. “Yes, sir,” he breathed, not liking it but knowing he had no choice. “I won't tell him. But,” he cocked his head to one side and stared worriedly at Archie, “what are _you_ gonna do about Doyle?”

It was Archie's turn to sigh, and he turned away, gazing worriedly over his shop with all its fine contents. He knew where every single item had come from, remembered with pride the skill and style with which he'd “obtained” each one. Watching Doyle and his thugs destroy them would be like watching part of himself die. “I don't know,” he admitted softly. “I suppose I should think of something, but I'll be damned if I know what.”

Parker eased out of Hardison's embrace and gazed worriedly at Archie. He was the closest thing to a father she'd ever known, the man who'd opened his home, and his heart, to her and taught her everything he knew. She knew how he loved his shop with all its treasures, and couldn't bear the thought of him losing it to a brute like Doyle.

Eliot could help, _would_ help, but if Archie were right that was exactly what Doyle - and Quinn - wanted. And she couldn't bear the thought of losing _him_. He meant too much too her, had become too important to her. He'd opened up an entirely new world to her, made her feel things she'd never known were inside her. She'd stolen pieces of him for years and, somewhere along the way, he'd stolen pieces of _her_ as well.

A cold fear gripped her. The two men she loved most in the world were in danger, and it seemed she could only keep one by sacrificing the other.

Sophie frowned and watched from her usual table in the back corner of Cora's, her suspicions deepening as she watched the strange spectacle.

At the table in the center of the tavern sat the man who called himself Count Oscar San Guillermo of Sicily, dressed in garishly colored but obviously expensive clothing, his cloak satin-lined and fur-trimmed, his fingers decorated by rings of heavy gold and fine jewels. He had swept in and immediately started throwing money around, ordering Cora's best wine and her finest meal, showering gold upon the serving girls and buying drinks and food for the other patrons as well. He'd been holding court ever since, telling one story after another of his various and vast holdings back home and his ties to wealthy nobles in their own land. His hands waved expressively as he talked, his rings flashing, and he frequently reached into the heavy purse at his belt - which he made no effort to conceal - to pull out yet another coin and toss it to whomever was amusing him at the moment.

He seemed to be determined to ensure that everyone knew of his wealth.

Her eyes narrowed as she studied him. He was, in fact, a bit _too_ determined. Travelers as a rule tended to keep whatever wealth they possessed to themselves in unfamiliar places, tended to remain as unobtrusive and as little like a target as possible. Yet every word he spoke, every move and every gesture he made, seemed designed to draw attention to him and his splendor. More striking, he was noticeably lax in guarding his purse - which Sophie had already seen picked twice - and oblivious to the fact that one of his rings had already been stolen by one of Cora's girls.

And he'd made certain that everyone knew he had a coach outside in the alley, given to him by his dear friend the Duke of Mantua, much too large and ornate for his usual tastes, but ideal for transporting the luxuries he required upon his travels. Guarded, of course, by two lazy imbeciles whose vigilance he loudly and repeatedly declared untrustworthy.

She sat back in her chair with a soft, startled gasp as realization dawned suddenly upon her. He wasn't _unconcerned_ about thieves, he was _baiting_ them! She knew enough about wealthy nobles (having pretended to be one herself so many times) to know that they rarely traveled without a retinue of servants and a more than adequate guard, and that no self-respecting count would _ever_ lower himself to associate with the “rabble” in a tavern.

Oscar San Guillermo was no more a count than she was … well, any one of the countless people she'd claimed to be.

He was a fraud. Worse, he was a _plant_. He'd been sent here to bait a trap laid … for thieves.

Worry flooded her. This had Sterling written all over it, which meant he had a _particular_ thief in mind.

_Parker._

The younger woman had been on her best behavior lately. With tensions running so high in town, she'd known that Quinn and his men would be watching everyone more closely than ever, especially those he already disliked or distrusted. So she'd kept her hands to herself.

But she was also worried about Archie; she'd confided as much to Sophie. He needed money and, in Parker's mind, there was only one way to _get_ money. Anyone who knew Parker knew that.

 _Sterling_ would know that. Would almost certainly _count_ on it–

Sophie rose to her feet and slipped out of the tavern through the back way, her heart in her throat. She could see the coach, could see the two men who were making a rather obvious show of _not_ guarding it, and her fear deepened.

It was the perfect lure for their little magpie.

From her perch beneath the eaves of the tavern roof, balanced on one of the timber supports, Parker saw Sophie rushing out of the tavern, obviously troubled about something. She frowned in puzzlement but didn't call out to her or go after her. Sophie could wait.

The coach wouldn't.

She'd noticed it the moment it had appeared on the main street, dark and heavy and finely crafted, far grander than anything usually seen here. Not even Lord Nathan or Sterling had such a coach. Intrigued, she'd followed it, trying not to be too obvious, always conscious these days of Quinn and his men. She'd seen the coach stop in front of Cora's, had watched the richly dressed man step out and go into the tavern, then turned her attention to the two men who'd pulled the coach into the neighboring alleyway and set up a rather careless guard.

And she'd felt the familiar itch in her fingers.

She'd hoisted herself onto her customary perch just beneath the roof where she could observe the two “guards” unseen … and smiled at her good fortune as she listened to them. They didn't care at all for Count San Guillermo, weren't paid nearly enough for putting up with the insufferable bastard and couldn't imagine why no one had slit his throat and taken all his money yet. God knew he had enough to make it worth any thief's while.

The itch in Parker's fingers grew stronger.

She studied the coach, listened to the men complain, and smiled as one of them pulled a flask from inside his coat and began to drink. His companion noticed and demanded he share. Soon they were both drinking, standing on the other side of the coach to pass the flask back and forth … leaving _this_ side unguarded.

She couldn't help herself. She didn't need much, just enough to help Archie, and to hear the two men talk San Guillermo – “San Gui,” as they called him – had more than enough to spare. He might not even notice if she were careful in what she took.

And this was the only way she could help Archie _and_ protect Eliot.

She waited and watched as the two men drank, smiled as their attention grew ever more lax and their words began to slur, then, just one shadow among others, dropped silently down from her perch and crept toward the coach. She'd be in and out and gone before they ever knew what happened.

Taking one last look around to make sure no one was watching, she reached for the handle and silently opened the door, then climbed into the coach and closed the door behind her. Taking a deep breath, she waited for her eyes to adjust to the dimness inside–

And fell back in alarm as the top of the seat next to her was abruptly thrown off and a figure popped up from its hiding place beneath.

“Hello, Parker,” Sterling greeted with a smile, then leaned forward and grabbed her wrists, yanking her to him. “Let's go for a ride, shall we?”

Before she could gather her wits to fight, one of the guards – now shockingly alert – shoved his way inside and snapped iron manacles about her wrists, and then the coach was suddenly shooting forward.

“Parker! _Parker!_ ” Sophie shouted as she burst into Archie's shop. “Parker, where are you?”

Hardison hurried in from the back and stared at Sophie in confusion and alarm. “What is it?” he asked. “What's wrong?”

She rushed around the shop, peering into every corner. “Where is she?” she asked sharply, growing more frantic by the moment. “Where's Parker?”

Now Archie emerged from the back and went immediately to Sophie, grabbing her wrists and holding her in place. “What is it?” he asked sharply, worriedly. “What do you want with Parker?”

She exhaled unsteadily and shuddered but forced herself to settle. “Sterling's laid a trap for her,” she said breathlessly. “There's a man in the tavern posing as a wealthy count, splashing money around like water. He has a coach in the alley, with two men who are supposed to be guarding it but aren't–”

“Dear God,” Archie breathed in horror, dropping Sophie's wrists and falling back a step, all color draining from his face. “Parker–”

“No,” Hardison said firmly, shaking his head as he joined them. “She'd know better. Quinn's men are watching–”

“Not right now,” Sophie breathed, her fear rising toward panic. “They've made themselves busy elsewhere. I haven't seen them … since this San Guillermo arrived,” she finished in a whisper.

Hardison swallowed hard, his eyes wide. “And if you know that, Parker knows it,” he said slowly. But he shook his head. “ _No._ She's too smart, too careful. She wouldn't risk it–”

“Not for herself, no,” Archie said dazedly. “But for someone else, for _me_ –”

A sudden and loud commotion erupted outside, cutting off his words and setting off an alarm in his mind. Clutching fiercely, desperately at his cane, he hurried forward with Sophie and Hardison at his heels–

And stepped outside just in time to see a large black coach racing past, with Parker's white face framed in one window and Sterling's smug visage in the other.

“Dear God, no!” he gasped, sinking into the void that suddenly opened beneath his feet.

But Sophie and Hardison reached out to catch him, steadying him between them and helping him back inside. They guided him through the shop and into the room behind it, then eased him down onto a chair. Sophie bustled about, trying to order her own chaotic thoughts, and found a bottle of wine and a cup. She poured him a strong draught and handed it to him.

“Drink,” she ordered.

Hardison watched for Archie for several moments, long enough to assure himself that the older man wouldn't pass out or worse, then nodded at Sophie and started toward the door.

“Where are you going?” she asked sharply.

He whirled around and fixed furious eyes upon her. “After Parker, where do you think?” he snarled. “I'm not gonna let that bastard take her–”

“And what, exactly, do you intend to do?” she asked, her own wits returning. When he could do no more than stare at her, she nodded. “That's what I thought.” She drew a deep breath, considered a moment, and then stepped forward to him. “Go get Eliot,” she ordered calmly, “bring him here. He'll want to go directly after Sterling, but don't let him. We need a plan, not a murder. All right?” She saw the protest rising in him and reached out, laying a hand on his arm. “I know you want to go after her," she said, “but fighting isn't exactly your forte. And getting yourself killed won't help Parker.”

He swallowed hard but nodded. “All right,” he agreed.

She lifted her hand and pressed it to his cheek, smiling softly at him. “We'll get her back,” she said firmly. “I promise.”

He nodded again but couldn't speak past the hard knot in his throat. Throwing one last glance at Archie, who still sat ashen-faced and dazed in his chair, he turned and hurried out the back door.

Sophie watched him go, praying he could get Eliot to understand and cooperate, then turned and went back to Archie, setting a gentle hand on his shoulder. “We'll save her,” she promised softly, then leaned down and kissed his cheek. “I'll be back.”

“Wait,” he ordered harshly, grabbing her wrist before she could leave. “Where are you going?”

She lifted her chin and drew herself up to her full height, arching a dark, slim brow. “I'm going to get Nate,” she said firmly, a layer of steel in her words. “It's time he pulled himself out of that goddamned bottle and started protecting his people.”

Archie sat alone long after Sophie and Hardison had left, his world gone dark and cold, a terrible fear gripping him.

Sterling had Parker.

He shuddered as an icy chill swept through him. His … _child_ … the girl he'd taken in and raised as his own, _loved_ as his own … was in terrible danger. Because of _him_. She'd put herself in danger to protect him–

God, why hadn't he anticipated something like this? He'd known she was worried – about him, about Eliot – but he'd never imagined she'd do something like this. And yet, looking back, he realized he should have.

Parker wasn't like other people. She didn't act like them, didn't think like them, often didn't seem to feel the way others did … but she _did_ feel. And because she had only a very few people who truly meant anything to her, she felt all the more deeply about them.

And would do anything to protect them … even if it meant putting herself in danger.

He groaned deeply and bowed his head, burying his face in shaking hands.

Ah, God, God, there had to be some way to save her!


	6. Let's Go Steal a Thief

Eliot sat up on the roof and gazed contentedly at his handiwork. While the job had been far bigger than he'd anticipated, and had gone far beyond simply fixing the hole, he was making true progress. It was slow, often tedious, and by nightfall he was exhausted and aching in shoulders, back and thighs, but with each day that passed he could see his work taking shape before him.

And it felt good to do something with his hands that didn't involve killing, to create rather than destroy.

Still, something was missing, casting a small shadow of worry over his peace. He hadn't seen Parker in several days, and he missed her. He'd grown accustomed to her “helping” him (though her notions of “help” were … interesting, at best), had gotten used to the sound of her voice, the flash of her hands as she whisked something of his into one of her countless pockets … had simply gotten used to _her_. He'd discovered he didn't have to make excuses for himself, for what he'd been and what he'd done, to her, didn't have to try and twist himself into knots to fit any expectations she might have, and could give her that same freedom.

They understood each other in ways no one else could, accepted each other in ways no one else could, fit together in ways they never would with anyone else. Thief and killer, dancer and singer, two irreparably broken people who somehow found a kind of wholeness together.

He missed her. And he was worried about her. While he didn't always see her _every_ day, it was most unusual for her to stay away for _this_ long. Three days she'd been absent now, with no sign of her. He'd even gone to the meadow this morning, hoping for he didn't know what, and had found nothing.

Something wasn't right.

He sighed and looked up, sweeping the distance with his gaze for _something_ , some flash of color-

And stiffened as he saw a wagon barreling down the road at a breakneck pace. He could see no sign of pursuit and swore under his breath. The fool was taking a terrible risk. That road was rutted and pitted, with holes in it that could damn near swallow a horse. If the idiot hit one, he'd kill himself.

Then again, everyone around here _knew_ the treacherous state of the roads; it was a constant complaint, just one more sign of Lord Nathan's neglect. And for all the “taxes” he extorted from them, Sterling had done precious little about them, either.

No one in their right mind would take one of the roads here at that speed.

All his instincts for trouble began to wake, and he fixed his whole attention upon the wagon as if he were on the battlements of one of Damien's cities studying an enemy force. Suddenly the driver turned off the main road and onto the much narrower, and much worse, one that led _here_ , without slowing down-

And Eliot's instincts began to scream. He could see the wagon more clearly now, a large, heavy contraption of wood and iron topped by a colorfully painted canvas cover-

_Hardison._

It took him only a moment to identify the driver, and then he was racing for the ladder, his heart hammering out a frantic rhythm. Hardison might be loud, obnoxious and cocky, but he wasn't stupid, and he certainly wouldn't risk killing himself in a road accident without some urgent reason.

_Parker._

The fear grabbed him in a hard, painful clench, almost doubling him over. But he fought through it and hit the ladder just as Hardison was closing the distance to the house. He scrambled down the ladder, skipping more rungs than was probably safe, and barely hit the ground before he was pivoting and running to the edge of the yard. Hardison pulled up just as he got there, panting and sweating and looking both furious and terrified.

“Parker!” he gasped out, hurriedly setting the brake on the wagon. “Sterling caught her stealing. He's got her!”

Eliot's world shuddered to a dark and violent stop, his heart dropping sickeningly into his stomach. Jesus-

Hardison jumped down from the wagon and hurried to Eliot, grabbing his shoulders in a fierce grip. “We don't have time for this!” he spat. “You got to get yourself together and get whatever you need to get her back! Sophie's expectin' us back in town-”

“Where is she?” he asked in a low, hard voice, the old killing rage pushing its way through his fear. His hands clenched convulsively, craving the weight of a sword, and for an instant he was back on a sun-beaten desert plain, the scent of blood heavy on the air. “Where'd he take her?”

But Hardison shook his head. “Oh, no,” he said. “You're comin' with me. I'm not supposed to let you go after him on your own. We need some kinda plan that _don’t_ involve you stagin' a one-man assault on his walls.” Eliot opened his mouth to protest, but Hardison shook him hard. “ _No!_ You go stormin' up there, and for all we know that bastard will kill her! Or kill you. Which just might kill her. So no.” He thrust Eliot away. “Go on, now, go inside and get all your soldier shit together. Then we're goin' to town, and you and Sophie can fight this out.”

He seethed and spat out a curse, but suspected Hardison was right … not that he ever intended to say that out loud. “Fine,” he ground out. “But while you're waitin', make yourself useful and saddle my horse.”

Hardison blinked. “Saddle- But my wagon-”

Eliot glanced over Hardison's shoulder and glanced at the contraption, which seemed to have been put together by a mad blacksmith and a drunken carpenter. It seemed _exactly_ the sort of wagon Hardison would possess. “I'll be damned before I risk my life in that death-trap!” he declared, then returned his gaze to Hardison. “Especially after seeing you drive! Now, saddle my horse. Everything you'll need is in the stable.”

He turned away and hurried toward the house, but not before he heard Hardison complaining about his insult to someone named Lucille.

Sophie strode into the church, absently dipping her fingers into the holy water font and half-heartedly crossing herself, suppressing a shudder at the thought of all the rules and laws of this place she'd bent or broken in her life. Then she shoved the thought away.

This wasn't about _her_ mistakes.

She walked past the large statue of St. Nicholas, dipping her head briefly to the patron saint of thieves, and made her way into the nave, stepping in and out of the pools of light thrown onto the stone floor by the sunlight streaming in through the high windows. The place was quiet, empty save for the lone robed figure kneeling up ahead on the floor before the elaborate high altar. The scents of beeswax candles and incense floated lightly on the air.

“May I help you?”

She turned at the quiet voice and gazed into the handsome and slightly quizzical face of Father Paul, pastor of St. Nicholas. She could well imagine his surprise at seeing her of all people in his church, but had to admire the way he concealed it. Any other priest would have dropped dead from the shock.

“Thank you, Father,” she said with a soft smile, “but I'm not here to see you.” She turned back toward the figure before the altar. “I'm here to see him.”

Father Paul sighed, a world of sorrow in the sound, and moved to stand beside her, his gaze also falling upon the man. “I've tried,” he said sadly. “I've talked with him, argued with him, prayed for him- He knows how things are, but-” He shrugged. “I honestly don't know what else to do.”

“Yes, well,” she said firmly, lifting her chin, “you're not me. And I'm not really one for prayer. If you'll excuse me?” And she started up the aisle.

She saw his figure stiffen and smiled to herself. Good, let him know a fight was coming.

“I've left you alone with God long enough,” she called. “He's had time for his say, now I’m going to have mine.”

He sighed heavily. “I'm not-”

“Well, you damned well better be,” she snapped, stopping just behind him. “Your people need you, Nate. You've neglected them long enough. Yes, you've suffered a terrible loss, and, God, if I could change that I would! But I can't. No one can. And while you're hiding in here, people out there are suffering. You have to help them.”

He sighed again, then rose to his feet and turned to face her, his blue eyes sad in a worn face. “I can't be what they need-”

“That's too bad, because you're all they've got!” She steeled herself against the pain and said harshly, “And now Sterling's got Parker.”

He gasped and reeled. “What?”

She swallowed hard, trying desperately not to think of all the harm that could befall the girl, and stared into his eyes. “He's got her,” she said again, unable to keep the tremor from her voice. “He set a trap for her, and she fell into it-” Her voice broke and she reached out abruptly, grabbing his hands and holding tightly to him. “She needs you, Nate! God only knows what he's got planned for her! Or what will happen if he hurts her. The people won't stand for much more, but he's got his men, his _soldiers_ , all over town-” A sudden thought, a sudden _fear_ , struck her. “And then there's Eliot,” she breathed.

He narrowed his eyes. “Eliot?”

She huffed out a sharp laugh. “Don't tell me you don't know of him. Even hidden away here, you manage to know everything. You can't help yourself.” When he didn't answer, she rolled her eyes. “Fine. Eliot Spencer. _Sir_ Eliot Spencer, a soldier recently returned from the wars who doesn't particularly need any more blood on his hands but cares too much for Parker to let that stop him. If you don't do something, _he_ will, and I have no doubt that _someone_ will die. Is that what you want?”

“No, of course not! But-” He turned away, his shoulders slumping. “You don't understand-”

She grabbed him and spun him around, fury blazing through her. “Bloody hell, I don't!” she spat. “I understand being lost, I understand being hurt, and I understand feeling as if your whole world is gone! _Everyone_ understands that, Nate, you're not alone or unique in that! Pain is a part of life! Most of us, though, don't have the luxury of holing up in a church or crawling into a bottle. You've managed to do both. And it's time for you to come back out. Or what happens next will be on your head. And,” she added bitingly, “on your soul.”

“And what exactly am I supposed to do?” he snapped, anger lighting his faded eyes. “In case you haven't noticed, I don't exactly have an army, so I can't just storm Sterling's walls and demand Parker's freedom! He's a bastard, I know that, but he's a _smart_ bastard! He never does anything without a reason, a plan-” He broke off and frowned as she laughed aloud. “What?”

She shook her head, her smile turning sweet, and lifted a hand to his cheek. “Darling Nate,” she cooed, “you've just described yourself! You two have always been more alike than either of you was willing to admit. He's a smart, conniving, arrogant bastard.” She arched a brow. “And I'd say it takes one to beat one.”

He smiled wryly. “You always say the sweetest things.”

“I don't have time for sweetness or flattery,” she said. “And you no longer have time to wallow in your self-pity. You're Lord Nathan of the House of Ford, not some wine-soaked, God-addled monk. And it's high time, _my lord_ , that you dragged your self-indulgent ass out of this church and take care of your people!”

A choked cough sounded behind them, and they turned to see Father Paul standing a few feet away, gazing somewhat uncomfortably at Sophie.

“I'm not sure I would have put it in just those words,” he said, a slight smile teasing at his mouth, “but she's right.” He turned his gaze to Nathan. “God's house is a place of refuge, yes, but only so that those in need might find strength in its walls. It was never meant to be a place to hide from the world. And our responsibilities to that world don't stop at its doors. You have to go, Nate. It's time. And it's God's will.”

Nathan arched a brow. “And you know this because-?”

Father Paul laughed and gestured at Sophie. “Because when Sophie Devereaux walks of her own free will into a church, it's _got_ to be a sign of _something_!”

Sterling stepped out of the coach and waved his men forward, ordering them to bring Parker. He strode into his hall with a jaunty, confident step, smiling at the sounds of the scuffle behind him. Four men held her between them and others were racing forward to help as she kicked and twisted and lashed out with chained hands, biting and clawing and spitting curses the whole way. She was strong, he'd give her that.

But strength wasn't everything.

At the far end of the hall, he mounted the stone step and seated himself on the large and elaborately carved chair of office, sighing contentedly as he set his hands on the wide arms. _Power_ was everything. And he had it.

He watched as his men wrestled and dragged the girl to him, finally managing to control her between them. One knelt to snap manacles around her ankles and was kicked viciously in the face. He fell back with a cry, nose spurting blood, and Sterling sighed.

Really, how hard could it be?

Another soldier pushed past the fallen man and managed to get the manacles on without grievous injury. Parker still fought and spat curses, but to much lesser effect.

“Good,” Sterling said as his men stood around the chained thief. “Now perhaps we can decide-”

“Father?”

He only barely stifled a curse as Olivia ran into the hall, clearly drawn by the commotion, an anxious look on her face. She stopped short at the sight of Parker and gasped sharply, then turned wide eyes upon her father. “What's going on?”

He sighed and forced a smile. “It's nothing, my dear. Official business. You go on back-”

“ _What_ business?” she insisted. “What are you doing?”

“I'm catching thieves,” he said tersely. “She's been stealing from everyone for years, and it finally tripped her up. I caught her red-handed-”

“You tricked me!” Parker shouted. “You set a trap-”

“And you fell into it nicely, thank you!” he ground out. “Now, kindly _shut up-_ ”

“They'll never let you get away with it!” Parker spat. “They'll come for me, _Eliot_ will come for me and he'll kill you-”

“Will someone kindly _gag the bloody thief!_ ” he shouted, slamming his hands against the arms of the chair and shooting to his feet.

Olivia stared at her father, her eyes huge in her white face. “Eliot?” she whispered strickenly. “Eliot _Spencer_?”

He frowned deeply, worried by her reaction. “What do you know of him?”

She swallowed and shook her head. “Only what Quinn has said. But-”

He muttered a curse. Damn Quinn and his loose tongue! But he pasted on a forced smile and stepped down, going to her. “It's nothing,” he assured her. “Quinn exaggerates. This man Spencer is no threat-”

Parker bit the hand trying to shove a gag into her mouth and shouted, “He's a trained soldier! He's killed more men than you can count-”

“Get her out of here!” Sterling snapped, seeing the effect her words were having on his daughter. “I'll deal with her later! Take her down to cells and lock her away!”

“Father-”

“Ssh, hush, it's all right,” he soothed, taking Olivia into his arms and holding her close as his men dragged Parker away. “She's frightened and angry. Her words mean nothing.”

“No,” she whispered, clinging tightly to him. “They mean you're in danger.”

He laughed and laid his head atop hers. “From a cornered thief and one lone soldier? Olivia, I have an entire garrison-”

“And how many people are there in town?” she asked sharply, pulling out of his arms and staring at him in fear. “In _all_ the towns? Father, I know what you've been doing, and I know the people resent you! Yes,” she said before he could interrupt, “I know, _someone_ had to do it! Lord Nathan abandoned his responsibilities, and _someone_ had to take over! And you're the perfect man for it. _But you've gone too far!_ ” She turned away and began to pace, wringing her hands in distress. “Don't you think I've heard the rumors, the whispers?” she asked. “When I go into town, don't you think I can see how people look at me and hear what they say behind my back? They're _angry_ , Father!” she cried, whirling back to face him. “And they're getting desperate!” She went to him and took his hands in hers, holding tightly to them and gazing fearfully into his eyes. “I've heard stories of uprisings in other places,” she whispered. “And I don't want that to happen to you!”

He pulled his hands from hers. “She's a thief, Olivia-”

“Yes, but she's _their_ thief! She means something to them! Please, Father,” she begged softly, “tread carefully. I don't want anything to happen to you!”

He exhaled slowly and away his anger, mustering a smile for her sake. “It's all right,” he said softly, reaching out to brush a finger against her cheek. “I have everything under control, I promise. I have Quinn and an entire garrison of soldiers. And as long as I have Parker, Eliot Spencer will be no threat to me.”

Eliot hit town like an avenging angel set to do battle. He raced down the main street heedless of the people who had to dive out of his way, his stallion’s steel-shod hooves throwing sparks off the cobbled streets. He rode as he had with Damien, clad in surcoat and mail, sword and dagger at his waist and shield hanging from his saddle. Cheers rose up in his wake, even from those who’d narrowly missed being ridden down by him.

He charged past Peggy’s shop, past Cora’s tavern and down the street without breaking pace. Only at Archie’s did he finally rein in and all but throw himself out of the saddle.

“Where is she?” he demanded as Archie rushed out to meet him. “What happened?”

“Sterling took her,” the older man said tightly, fear and fury warring in his eyes. “He set a trap for her, paid some strutting popinjay to pose as a rich traveler, flashing his wealth, and then waited for her in the coach he’d provided. He knew she wouldn’t be able to resist!” he rasped, his voice trembling. “He baited the trap for her, and then he caught her!”

Eliot stared at him in confusion. “Why?” he asked. “Ever since I ran Doyle out of Cora’s, Quinn has been watching. Hell, _she’s_ been warning _me_ about him! Why would she suddenly risk–”

“For me,” Archie said softly, a world of pain in his soft words. “Doyle came back a few days ago, extorting more than ever and brutalizing anyone who can’t pay. And,” he swallowed hard and shook his head, “I can’t pay. She was afraid of what would happen to me. And before you say anything,” he added more strongly as Eliot started to protest, “she was protecting you, too.”

“Me?” Eliot asked sharply. “How–”

“Because she knew if you found out you’d intervene,” Archie said. “Half the town was begging us to send for you!”

“And why didn’t you?” Eliot demanded, his anger mounting again. “She was right, I _would’ve_ come–”

“Exactly,” Archie said. “And that’s precisely what Quinn wanted. He was waiting for you, and would’ve killed you. Or,” he smirked slightly, “he would’ve tried.” The smirk faded, replaced by a look of overwhelming weariness and loss. “She did this for us,” he said weakly. “And now he’s got her.”

Eliot turned away with a low and wordless growl as fury erupted through him in a hard, hot wave, burning away every thought, every hope of peace he’d cherished since leaving Damien. Sterling had Parker. She’d been trying to protect him, protect Archie, and the bastard _had_ her.

“Where?” he seethed, his eyes sweeping over the town. “Where’d he take her?”

Archie shook his head. “To the castle, I presume. He wouldn’t risk keeping her in town.” He smiled sadly. “She can pick any lock, and he knows it. She’d be out of anything less than a dungeon in the blink of an eye.”

Eliot turned and stared beyond the edge of town, to the castle rising from the hill in the distance. Lord Nathan’s castle, Cora had said, but abandoned by him and taken over by Sterling. Smaller than those he’d taken and defended in the Levant, still unfinished … and still impregnable to one man alone–

“You thinking of storming the castle?”

Eliot stiffened at the mocking voice and turned slowly to see Quinn standing in the middle of the street, a hand on his sword hilt and a faint smile on his face. His anger rose higher still.

“That’s a lot of trouble for one little thief,” Quinn prodded. “You sure she’s worth it?”

Eliot ground his teeth and set a hand to his own sword. “What’s he gonna do with her?” he growled.

Quinn laughed and shrugged. “Well, that’s the question, isn’t it?” He arched a fair brow and lifted a hand to scratch his jaw. “Hang her, I’d say,” he mused lazily. “She is a thief.”

And Eliot’s rage erupted. With a harsh cry he drew his sword and rushed Quinn, who managed to draw his and defend himself just in time. The two men went at each other with a vicious ferocity, heavy swords clanging loudly and blades flashing in the sun. They loosed deadly blows backed by a furious strength, skilled soldiers seeking to cleave each other in half.

Hardison pulled up and jumped off his wagon, racing forward, and the townsfolk gathered to watch. But Eliot noticed them only vaguely, his whole attention fixed on Quinn and the sword he wielded so well. Quinn was taller, his reach longer, and more than once Eliot only barely managed to avoid that slashing, thrusting blade. But he was pressing Quinn just as hard, years of near constant warfare coming to his aid.

And, however much he’d come to regret them, those years now stood him in good stead. He’d only just returned from the wars, was still conditioned by that harsher climate, reflexes still honed to a fine, sharp edge. But Quinn had been longer away, had spent these past few years in softer service with only time in a practice yard against his own men to keep him sharp. He was fast and strong but over-confident, too certain of his advantage in size and apparently forgetting that he was fighting against a man who’d spent the past twenty years doing exactly this for his very survival.

Even so, he wasn’t entirely able to keep Quinn at bay. Time and again pain seared through him as the man’s slashing blade reached him, biting through the links of his mail to slice deep gashes into his left bicep and across his pectoral, and rip agonizingly down through the muscles of his right ribcage.

Bastard.

But he pushed the pain away, numbed himself to it as he had so often in the past and pushed his attack. Sweat and blood were pouring from him, but Quinn was doing no better. His sword was striking home as well, carving into Quinn’s body, and that knowledge lent him strength. 

As did the realization that Quinn was weakening.

The man was gasping loudly, heavily, his thrusts growing more erratic, his blows gradually losing force. Eliot pressed harder still, driving the man back, back, still further back, until he saw his chance. Quinn tried a backhanded slash across Eliot’s chest but missed and carried his arm out too wide, and Eliot loosed a harsh cry and barreled into him with his shoulder, driving the bigger man down onto the street. Before he could roll away and regain his footing, Eliot pounced, drawing his dagger and dropping astride him, raising the blade for a killing stroke across his throat–

“ _Hold!_ ”

The strong voice stopped his blade just above Quinn’s throat and froze him into stillness. For a moment, he was back in the desert, with Damien at his back and commanding his every instinct. Then the moment faded and he was back in the street, with Quinn beneath him and his blade hovering just above the man’s jugular.

“Why?” he demanded simply, harshly, everything in him crying out for this man’s blood.

“Because killing him won’t get Parker back,” the voice answered with a maddening reasonableness.

Eliot ground his teeth and swore. Quinn was staring up at him through unblinking eyes, his face blank and his body tense but utterly motionless. His life hung in the balance and he knew it.

And all at once Eliot couldn’t do it. Once upon a time, and not so very long ago, he would have struck home anyway, would have killed Quinn for no other reason than that he could. But that man was gone, or so he hoped, and now all he wanted was to find a way to bring Parker home.

“Fine,” he rasped, sheathing his dagger once more and rising to his feet, stepping away from Quinn. “Get up,” he ordered hoarsely, now beginning to feel the effects of his wounds. None was serious, he knew, but every one of them would soon be hurting like hell.

Quinn heaved himself to his feet, looking every bit as drained and unsteady as Eliot felt, then sheathed his sword and raised his arms. “You’re a tough bastard to kill,” he said hoarsely, regarding Eliot with something very close to respect. Then he managed a shadow of his former cocky grin. “But next time I’ll figure out a way.”

Eliot stepped forward, staring into Quinn’s eyes. “If he hurts Parker and you’re anywhere around,” he said in a low, hard voice, “you’ll get your ‘next time.’ But you won’t be walkin’ away. Now get out of here and tell him I’m comin’ for her.”

Quinn swallowed, his smile fading, and nodded, then turned slowly and limped away, having to push his way through the crowd that no longer seemed quite so frightened of him.

Eliot exhaled heavily, tired to his bones, and slipped his dagger into its sheath. His sword lay in the street where he’d dropped it after hitting Quinn, but just now he couldn’t muster the strength to retrieve it.

Fuck. This was the part of any fight he always hated most.

And it wasn’t quite over yet.

Drawing himself up to his full height, and wincing as pain erupted throughout his body, he turned slowly around, curious to know whose voice had stayed his hand … and stopped short at the sight of a man with dark curling hair seated atop a tall black horse and clad in a fine cloak of deepest blue and soft woolen robe of a slightly lighter shade, with jewels flashing at his throat and wrists. Beside him, Sophie was seated on a white palfrey, looking for all the world like a queen, but Eliot only had eyes for the man.

“And who the fuck are you?” he asked hoarsely, too tired for social niceties.

But the man smiled slightly. “I’m Lord Nathan. And I believe we have a few things to discuss.”

Eliot only stared and then fell to his knees.

  


“Ow! _Damn_ it, Hardison!” Eliot snapped, flinching violently as the younger man pressed against the wound in his side a pad of cloth soaked in something that burned like high holy hell. “What the fuck are you doing?”

Hardison swept the pad slowly over the long gash Quinn’s sword had opened down Eliot’s ribcage. “I am _trying_ to clean this wound and stop you from bleeding to death,” he answered. “And you have got a mouth on you! Did you curse like that down in the Holy Land? ’Cause I can’t imagine Jesus would appreciate hearing-”

“Have you ever _been_ to the Holy Land?” Eliot snapped. “Oh, wait, I’ve seen your map.” Hardison’s eyes narrowed, and he knew he’d scored a hit. “Trust me, I’ve done more to offend God than just curse.”

Hardison didn’t say anything to that, but the look he gave Eliot was sad and sympathetic, and he seemed to probe and tend Eliot’s wounds with just a bit more gentleness.

And, despite his complaints, Eliot was grateful to him. He’d grown so used to tending his own wounds over the years that he’d simply assumed he would have to do the same this time. But even as he’d tried dazedly to imagine how he’d make the long ride home in his battered condition, both Hardison and Cora had rushed forward to help him to his feet, supporting him between them, and then he’d been swept along helplessly as Lord Nathan had commandeered two of Cora’s larger upstairs rooms that shared an adjoining door.

He’d been deposited gently onto a bed, and strong and capable hands had begun stripping him of his armor and clothing, batting away his own hands when he’d tried to help. Archie had appeared with vials and pouches of various elixirs and herbs, Cora had yelled down for water and bandages, and the next thing he’d known Hardison was alternately torturing and tending him while Cora gave him strong, sweet wine to drink. Through it all, Sophie hovered and murmured and petted and stroked him–

While Lord Nathan sat in a chair in the corner and watched it all through coolly appraising eyes.

And Eliot was pissed. This wasn’t the slobbering, shambling, drunken wreck of a man he’d been expecting, but one clearly in full command of his faculties. Yes, his eyes were bloodshot and his face lined and worn, his skin sallow, and he seemed to drink more of the wine Cora had brought up for Eliot than Eliot himself. But Eliot could clearly sense his shrewd, cool intelligence, see the ease and speed with which his mind worked, and it bothered him deeply that this man should have held himself apart and let his people suffer.

“And just where the hell have you been?” he growled finally, unable to keep the question at bay any longer. “You could have stopped all this long before it got to this point! These people are your responsibility-”

“You don’t know anything about any of this,” Nathan countered evenly, his vivid blue gaze never leaving Eliot. “You’ve been gone yourself, remember?” he asked pointedly, then frowned thoughtfully. “I seem to recall that you ran away, just took off to join the army, abandoning _your_ responsibilities to your family to seek your fortune and glory.” He arched a brow. “How’d that work out for you?”

Eliot snarled out a curse and shot to his feet, scattering Hardison, Cora and Sophie, and took an angry step toward Nathan, hand reaching instinctively for a sword that wasn’t there. “My father was a _farmer_ ,” he spat, “and as far as I know, my family never suffered from my absence. But your people _have_! You’ve stewed in your misery and grief while Sterling has run roughshod over _everyone_ , you’ve let men like Quinn and Doyle and God knows who else terrorize people who couldn’t fight back, and you’ve never lifted a finger to help! So you tell me, _my lord_ ,” he sneered, “which of us bears the greater guilt?”

Nathan sighed. “Eliot–”

“ _That bastard has Parker!_ ” he shouted, flinging an arm roughly toward the distant castle, his whole frame vibrating with rage. He could _see_ her, white-faced and frightened, small and alone and helpless in the hands of men capable of God knew what. Hell, _he_ knew, had seen it more times than he cared to admit, rough and violent men suddenly presented with so fair a prize–

His blood turned cold and a shudder ran through him. Hardison came to him and clasped a hand around his arm, seeking to lead him back to the bed, but he shrugged the younger man off, all the while staring intently at Nate.

“Fine,” he growled. “You just sit here, drink yourself into a stupor and tell yourself how unfair your life has been. And while you’re doing that,” he turned away and began looking for his clothing and weapons, “I’m gonna go bring Parker home.”

“By yourself?” Nathan asked. “Against an entire garrison? He’ll be waiting for you, you know. _Quinn_ will be waiting. And while it will be romantic and noble as hell, you getting yourself killed won’t help Parker at all.”

“Then _what_?” Eliot snarled, turning abruptly back to Nathan. “What do we do? Wait for her to rescue herself?”

Nathan smiled slightly. “Not exactly. I have a plan.”

“A p– a _plan_?” Eliot sputtered as Hardison groaned behind him. “What kind of plan?”

“Simple, really.” His smile widened into a grin. “Let’s go steal a thief.”


	7. A Little More Than a Team

Parker sat huddled in one corner of her cell, her legs folded against her chest and her arms wrapped around them, and tried not to let her fear overwhelm her. She’d been treated well enough - Olivia had come down earlier, bringing blankets and a large flagon of cool water and making certain she’d had enough to eat - but that didn’t change the fact that she was _here_.

And she was alone.

She knew there were guards _somewhere_ , but Olivia had seemed to think it wrong or unfitting that they stand close watch upon her and had ordered them into the outer chamber, assuring them the prisoner was locked securely in her cell. Which, of course, was ridiculous. Parker had picked that lock hours ago and could leave her cell any time she wished.

She just didn’t know where to _go_. She’d never been in the castle before, had no idea of its layout or which way led to freedom. She’d tried to pay attention as they’d dragged her down here, but there’d been so many twists and turns, and she’d been so upset, that her natural sense of direction had deserted her. She knew only that she was underground – she could tell by the smell and feel of the air – in some deep, dark heart of a confusing labyrinth.

She tightened her arms around her legs. Long years ago, before he’d left, Eliot had told a story of a young hero who’d gone into a labyrinth to kill an evil man-bull and free a kingdom from its terror. She’d stood and listened enthralled, sunshine falling over the meadow in waves and butterflies dancing about her, as he’d spun his tale to no one in particular … and just for her. His words had brought the story to life, and at the end, when he’d taken up his sword and acted out killing the evil man-bull, she’d clapped her hands and cheered, badly startling them both.

She still remembered his eyes as he’d stared at her, so bright and blue, and the proud and happy smile that had lit his entire face. She’d thought him the equal, or better, of any hero in any story, the finest boy she’d ever seen.

She smiled at the memory and finally lay down upon the blankets Olivia had brought for her, covering herself and curling into a small, tight ball. Sounds echoed eerily through the vast expanse of the dungeon, empty save for her, but she pillowed her head upon her arm and closed her eyes, no longer afraid.

The boy she’d cheered that day in the meadow no longer existed, and hadn’t for a very long time. But the man who’d taken his place did, and though he thought himself tarnished and battered beyond repair, she knew better.

He still shone as brightly as ever in her eyes. And tomorrow he’d come and get her.

  


Sterling stood in the courtyard with his men behind him and Quinn, battered and bruised but upright, beside him, and stared at the heavy main gate as it slowly began to rise. The missive he’d received last evening had been damnably vague – _under the customs and laws of Lévèrage … the rights and privileges of freemen … redress certain grievances and issues of offense … the matter of the young woman, Parker …_ – and he still had no real idea just who he was supposed to be meeting or why.

God damn these people and the jumped-up notions of justice and rights they’d gotten from that sot Nathan!

Quinn shifted uncomfortably at his side, grimacing deeply and groaning softly, and Sterling cast him a scornful look.

“I trust you will actually be able to lift your sword if called upon to defend my honor?” he asked bitingly.

Quinn glared at him. “I can do my job,” he seethed, then added under his breath, “fucker.”

Sterling heard it and rolled his eyes but said nothing. Perhaps Quinn’s opinion would matter more if the man had actually proven competent enough to kill Eliot Spencer.

He returned his attention to the gate, smirking at the thought of the rabble that waited on the other side. They could protest all they want, but it would do them no good. His word was law here now. They’d been coddled and spoiled by Nathan, only to be abandoned by him. Well, it was time they learned how their world worked now. His smile grew as the gate rose higher. They had a new lord and a new law, and they would simply have to learn to live with it–

His thoughts tumbled to a halt as the gate finally rose high enough for him to see exactly who waited with their “grievances.” Constable Bonanno, of course, the merchant Archie Leach, naturally, Sophie Devereaux, or whoever she was claiming to be today … and mounted between them on a black horse and wearing the familiar bright blue surcoat emblazoned with the silver mailed arm and sword, Lord Nathan himself.

Others were there as well, but Sterling only had eyes for the man on the horse. Nathan looked almost as he ever had – tall, slim and slightly tousled, but as self-assured, as self-righteous, as ever.

The bastard.

“Well, _that’s_ unexpected,” Quinn quipped.

“Shut up,” Sterling snapped, realizing with a sinking feeling that this day just might not go entirely the way he’d planned. Damn it.

And damn Nathan Ford.

His irritation only deepened when, without waiting for an invitation, Nathan spurred his horse through the gate and led his mob into the courtyard. The king of fools and his rabble army. Except that, besides Nathan and Bonanno, no one seemed armed.

Strange.

“Hello, Nate,” Sterling greeted.

“Sterling,” the man returned, sounding vaguely bored. “You have one of my people here. Parker. I’ve come to get her back.”

“Have you now?” Sterling asked. “By what means?”

Nathan shrugged lazily and smiled. “By whatever means it takes. Where is she?”

“Locked up in a cell,” Sterling said tersely. “Where all thieves belong.” He glanced over the mob accompanying Nathan and noticed one startling absence. “Where’s Spencer?” he asked, suddenly suspicious. “Or did Quinn manage to kill him after all?”

Nathan chuckled quietly. “Oh, no, he’s still very much alive. But I thought it safer to leave him behind. For your sake,” he added pointedly, then smiled. “It’s amazing what skills twenty years of war will give a man. And he seemed determined to use them all on you.”

Sterling swallowed hard, but refused to give any other sign of his sudden unease. Still, he glanced aside at Quinn. “You were supposed to take care of him.”

Quinn stared back. “That’s not quite as easy as you make it sound. But I’ll tell you what. Next time, _you_ can try, and we’ll see how it goes.”

Sterling ground his teeth. “Perhaps I’ll just reconsider what I’m paying you!” he snarled.

“Gentlemen?” Nathan cut in. “Back to Parker?”

Sterling scowled at Quinn a few moments longer, then returned his attention to Nathan. “I told you,” he said harshly, “she’s a thief. I caught her–”

“That’s what we’re here to discuss,” Nate cut in. He swung down from the saddle and strode forward, smiling at Sterling. “It’s a warm day,” he said easily. “Let’s go inside. It should be nice and cool in my hall–”

“ _My_ hall,” Sterling corrected through clenched teeth.

But Nathan only smiled more broadly and clapped him on the shoulder as he passed. “That’s something else we’ll talk about. Gentlemen?”

And Sterling had no choice but to follow.

  


“Hardison, do you have _any_ idea where we’re going?” Eliot asked as they rounded yet another corner and started down yet another passageway.

The two of them had split off from Nathan and his party in the castle’s outer courtyard before going through the inner gate and circled around the curtain wall that protected the main part of the castle, following the route used by wagons bringing in provisions. They’d found the entrance to the alehouse and slipped inside, following it into the kitchens and then ever further into the interior of the castle.

They’d been winding around and down ever since, down passageways that all looked exactly the same. Hell, for all Eliot knew they _were_ the same, and they’d simply been walking in circles.

But Hardison stopped abruptly and turned to face him, looking gravely offended. “Of course I know where we’re going!” he insisted firmly. “I have a map!”

Eliot groaned and bowed his head, raising a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Please tell me you didn’t draw this one,” he begged.

“You need to let that pilgrim map go,” Hardison said. “Considering I have never set foot in the Holy Land, it’s pretty damned accurate–”

“It’s all wrong,” Eliot reminded him.

“It’s not _that_ wrong-”

“ _It’s all wrong!_ ” Eliot snapped, lifting his head and glaring at the younger man. “ _Completely_ wrong! Now, tell me _this_ map is better!”

Hardison lifted his chin and folded his arms against his chest. “It’s better,” he said airily. “And you need to have some faith in your fellow man.”

Eliot stepped forward and jabbed a finger into Hardison’s chest. “Get me to Parker, or I will kill you with your own map,” he ground out. “Do you understand me?”

Hardison sighed and shook his head. “You didn’t sleep much last night, did you? ’Cause you are testy. Even for you. And that is saying something.”

“Hardison, I swear to God–”

“Seriously, Eliot, you need to calm down,” Hardison warned, studying him with some concern. “After all that blood you lost yesterday, and then not sleeping last night, you don’t need to be wasting your strength threatening _me_ when–”

“ _Hardison!_ ”

He sighed sharply and rolled his eyes. “Fine,” he muttered grudgingly, turning back around. “This way. And before you ask for the eighteenth time, yes, I am sure.” He held up a hand with a rolled-up parchment. “I have a map.”

And Eliot wondered just how pissed Lord Nathan would be if he left Hardison’s body down in these tunnels.

To his surprise, however, this map _did_ seem accurate, and after a truly baffling series of twists and turns, they emerged at what Hardison assured him was the detention area – a large outer chamber with a stout wooden door leading to two interior cells.

“Two?” Eliot asked in disbelief. “Only two?”

Hardison stared back at him. “I guess Lord Nathan didn’t plan on taking many prisoners,” he retorted.

They listened but didn’t hear any voices. Creeping closer, Eliot chanced a glance into the chamber, and was startled to see no sign of any guards. His instincts at high alert, he drew his sword silently and stepped into the chamber, confused to find it truly empty and the door to the cells ajar. Waving Hardison forward, he went to the door, braced for attack and opened it abruptly–

Only to find a guard lying unconscious on the floor and Parker sitting in the middle of her cell, the door wide open.

Eliot stared in confusion at the scene before him. “Parker?”

She shot to her feet and left the cell, nudging the guard with a toe as she went. “He kept locking the door,” she explained. “I finally had to knock him out to make him leave it alone.” She suddenly darted forward and launched herself into Eliot’s arms without warning. “I knew you’d come!”

He gasped in pain and staggered as she jarred his injuries, but immediately tightened his arms about her, not caring at all just now how much holding her hurt. “Of course I came,” he breathed, burying his face in her golden hair. “What else was I gonna do?”

  


Nathan barely suppressed a shudder as he entered the great hall, feeling as if a black and heavy chill were pressing against him. He hadn’t been in here since Maggie had left him, had fled this place as soon as she’d gone, unable to endure alone the memories of his dead son that haunted every passageway and chamber.

This had been Sam’s home …

Suddenly Sophie was at his side, her hand wrapping around his and holding tightly, her warmth just enough to keep the ghosts at bay. For now. But he knew once he left this place today, he’d never be coming back.

He smiled down at her to reassure her, touched by the worry in her dark eyes. Then, determined to make a point, he gently freed his hand from hers and walked to the large chair at the end of the hall where he sat down without invitation, not missing the anger that crossed Sterling’s face.

Let him seethe.

He sat back and crossed one leg over the other. “So, Parker,” he said simply. “We both know you have no right to hold her, so you might as well let her go now and save us both a lot of arguing.”

“I have _every_ right!” Sterling insisted hotly, stopping just before the chair and lifting his chin to meet Nathan’s stare. “I caught her red-handed–”

“Stealing what?” Nate cut in.

Sterling gaped, clearly startled by the question, then frowned and shook his head. “Excuse me?”

Nathan sighed and rolled eyes. “What … did … she … steal?” he asked very slowly and very clearly, as if dealing with an imbecile.

Sterling ground his teeth and clenched his hands into fists. “You know perfectly well–”

“No, I don’t,” Nathan said. “You keep saying you ‘caught her,’ but you don’t say with what. And don’t tell me it was anything of Oscar San Guillermo’s, because we both know that you gave him everything he had in the hope that Parker _would_ steal it. Which, I might add, she didn’t.” He arched two brows. “Am I right so far?”

“ _She’s a thief!_ ” Sterling spat. “You know it, I know it, _everyone_ knows it!” He whirled abruptly to face Bonanno. “And _you_ know it! Why you haven’t arrested her before now–”

“Because no one’s ever been able to prove anything,” the constable said reasonably. “No one’s ever seen her steal anything, much less caught her at it. And many times the things she’s been accused of stealing have turned up later.” He shrugged and folded his arms against his chest. “I can’t arrest her without some kind of evidence.” He stared at Sterling. “That would be wrong.”

“She’s a thief,” Sterling said again. He turned to Archie. “ _He’s_ a thief. He raised her and trained her. His shop is filled with things they’ve stolen over the years–”

“Please,” Archie said coldly, inclining his head regally. “Why in the world would I be foolish enough to display stolen goods in my shop? Unless you can prove any of this, I demand you cease making these ridiculous accusations.”

Sterling sputtered angrily for a moment. He knew as well as anyone there was no proof. Except–

“Then what was she doing in the coach?” he asked quietly, turning back to Nathan. “For what possible reason would a girl like Parker climb into a perfect stranger’s coach, unless she intended to steal?”

Nathan thought a moment, then shrugged and admitted, “I don’t know. Parker’s always been a difficult one to understand.” He stared at Sterling and arched a brow. “Then again, what were _you_ doing in that coach?”

Sterling smiled thinly. “Guarding it,” he said evenly. “I’d heard there were thieves in the vicinity.”

Nathan exhaled sharply and shook his head, his patience at an end. “You set a trap for her,” he said harshly, his gaze boring into Sterling. “You used San Guillermo and his ridiculous display of wealth to bait that trap, and then, before she had time to do anything, you locked her in that coach and brought her here. She didn’t steal anything,” he said angrily. “She didn’t have time!”

“That girl–”

“That girl is innocent,” Nathan went on ruthlessly. “You, however–” He narrowed his eyes and gave a cold, thin smile. “Ah, your crimes are very real.”

“My c– What the bloody hell are you talking about?” Sterling thundered. “What crimes?”

“Well, there’s kidnapping,” Bonanno said. “Enticing Parker into your coach and then spiriting her away from town against her will–”

“You don’t have to say it like that,” Sterling groused. “You make it sound unseemly.”

“Extortion,” Nathan went on. “Or, rather, paying others, men like Doyle, to extort money for you. Usurping my authority to make laws and using soldiers to enforce them, usurping Constable Bonanno’s authority. And theft of land.”

A harsh cry of outrage exploded from Sterling, and he spun around to face Constable Bonanno. “He can’t possibly be serious–”

But the constable shrugged. “He sounds serious to me.”

Sterling turned back to Nathan. “And just what land have I stolen?”

Nathan held up a hand and waved it to take in the hall. “Does this look familiar?” he sniped.

Sterling inhaled sharply, then narrowed his eyes and frowned in thought. Nate almost smiled. Give the man enough time and he’d think of an answer for everything.

“You abandoned these lands, and this castle–”

“But never sold,” Nate reminded him. “And you never asked. You simply took possession. That, I believe, is theft.”

Sterling stared at him for long moments, studying him, then smirked. “Fine,” he said with dry amusement. “Stop all this ridiculous posturing about the law and just tell me what you want.”

“Hardison-”

“I'm lookin', I'm lookin'!” the younger man grumbled, consulting his map yet again.

Parker's escape had been discovered - either her victim had regained consciousness and sounded the alarm or had been discovered by his relief - and soldiers now seemed to be crawling throughout the castle. They'd been cut off from the way they'd come in, and twice had stumbled by accident into groups of soldiers whom Eliot had been forced to fight. Now he was winded, hurting and bleeding again - though only he knew that just yet - and they desperately needed a way out.

But Hardison shook his head. “They're covering all the likely escape routes,” he said softly, his eyes chasing over the map for some possibility he'd missed.

Eliot closed his eyes and leaned against the cool stone wall at his back. “You're telling me that in a castle this size there are only a few ways out?” he asked in disbelief.

Hardison scowled at him. “I'm tellin' you that right now, with only this map and no idea how many soldiers are out there, I'm doin' the best that I can. Besides, you're the one that took cities for a living. Why aren't you doin' somethin'?”

“You mean like fighting every soldier who stumbles across us?” he snapped back. “Or would you like to try doing that while I look for a way out?”

“ _Boys!_ ” Parker hissed. “You can fight with each other later. Right now, we need another plan!”

Hardison exhaled sharply and looked again at his map. “Um, I think-” He traced a route with a forefinger, then lifted his hand to rub at his chin. “Yeah, I think this is it. Maybe.” He turned and pointed past Eliot. “We need to go back that way for a while, then turn left - I'll tell you when - and go up for a while.” He studied Eliot worriedly, not liking the man's pallor. “You all right?”

Eliot nodded and pushed himself off the wall. “Yeah,” he muttered. “This way?” When Hardison nodded, he turned and started back down the way they'd just come, his sword in one hand and Parker's hand in the other.

And only when he glanced down to take another look at the map did Hardison notice the blood on the wall where Eliot had been resting. 

“I want your men off my lands and out of my towns,” Nathan said coldly. “I don't care what you do on your own holdings, but mine are now off limits. And the next time I see Doyle or anyone like him anywhere near my people, I'll send him back to you in pieces.”

Sterling snorted. “And just how long do you intend to stay this time?” he asked cuttingly. “I only stepped in because you dove into a bottle-”

“You stepped in because you could,” Nathan countered. “Because there was no one there to stop you. Well, now there is. Me.” He glanced at Sophie. “And I won't be leaving again.”

She smiled softly and nodded, knowing he meant it.

“And,” he went on, returning his attention to Sterling, “you'll release Parker.”

“She's a thief-”

“You can't prove she's stolen anything-”

“Everyone knows-”

Letting his attention wander from the two bickering lords, Quinn saw two of his men stationed at a passageway midway down the great hall suddenly turn around, their interest piqued by something behind them. Curious, and bored out of his mind, he moved down the hall to his men, frowning as one, then the other, ducked into the passageway.

Neither came back out.

Intrigued, and more than a little suspicious, he stepped into the passageway himself … and drew his sword when he saw his two men lying at the feet of Eliot Spencer.

“Well, well, well,” he said with a bright smile, hugely relieved that his boredom was at an end. “I do believe you three need to come with me.”

  


  
“Damn it, Hardison!” Eliot growled as Quinn led them through the now silent hall to where Nathan sat and Sterling stood, both staring at them in utter surprise.

“Wait, did I say go right that last time?” the young man muttered. “Maybe we should've gone left.”

“Or maybe the map's just wrong,” Parker suggested, winning glares from both men.

“What the bloody hell is this?” Sterling asked as the three finally came to a stop. “Spencer, Parker … and you are?” he asked, his gaze alighting on the one he didn't know.

“Alec Hardison,” he sighed. And, damn it, how come nobody knew who he was?

“You broke her out of my prison,” Sterling went on.

“Actually, I broke myself out,” Parker said. “The locks down there are ridiculously easy. You probably need to work on that.” She shrugged and smiled. “I just waited until they came and got me.”

Sterling turned to Nathan, who was drumming the long fingers of one hand on the arm of his chair and rubbing his chin with the other hand. “This was your plan?” he asked quietly.

“Well, not entirely,” Nathan said. “In my plan, they didn't get caught.”

Hardison winced at the hint of ice in Nathan's voice, but Eliot narrowed his eyes and stared at Sterling. “There's still _my_ plan,” he growled.

Now Nate winced, remembering the many variations of the plan, each bloodier than the last, that Eliot had presented yesterday. “A little messy, I think,” he demurred, “and probably not the best idea with Constable Bonanno watching.”

Parker rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. “If you'd just gotten me some rope like I suggested-”

“No!” Eliot and Hardison answered in unison, neither having the slightest urge to climb out one of the tower windows and down the castle wall with nothing but a slim rope between them and death.

“You two have no imagination,” she grumbled with a pout.

“I have a plan,” Sterling said brightly. All eyes turned to him, and he turned to Quinn. “Lock those two up.” He indicated Parker and Hardison. “And kill Spencer.” He turned back to Nathan. “I'd like my chair back now, if you don't mind.”

“No, _no!_ ” Eliot shouted as both Parker and Hardison were swarmed by guards and torn from his protection. Before he could do anything to help them, however, Quinn launched an attack and he was forced to defend himself.

Parker and Hardison weren't about to let themselves be taken away while Eliot was fighting for his life and they turned immediately on their guards, struggling with a furious and determined strength. When more guards started to move in, Archie stepped in with his cane and Bonanno simply with his fists, keeping the odds firmly in Parker and Hardison's favor. Sophie used more subtle means, seemingly so stricken by fear and horror at the violence that she almost fainted, keeping three soldiers hovering anxiously around her.

Nathan smirked and Sterling rolled his eyes.

Eliot and Quinn, meanwhile, were aware only of each other. Both were still badly battered from yesterday's fight, and more than a few of Eliot's wounds were seeping blood from his exertions earlier, but they pushed all that from their minds. They thrust, parried, slashed and sliced, blades meeting, clashing and sliding free again, bodies dancing, weaving, spinning and dodging. Soon they were the only ones fighting, all others stopping to watch the two men going at each other.

_“Stop it!”_

Olivia ran through the hall to her father and clutched at his arm, staring pleadingly into his face. “Father, please, call them off!” she begged. “This has gone far enough!”

“Olivia-”

“No!” she cried. Releasing him, she turned to the man seated in her father's seat. “Lord Nathan, please, you know this is wrong! You can't let them kill each other!”

“Olivia, _please_!” Sterling called through clenched teeth. “You don't understand-”

“Understand what?” she snapped, turning back to him. “That because you and Lord Nathan can't settle matters between you, one of these two men must die? And if that still doesn't work, who will be next? And how many pawns will you two sacrifice between you?”

Nathan winced at the girl's words, shamed by the truth in them. “She's right,” he told Sterling in a low voice. “Eliot, Quinn!” he called much more loudly, his voice carrying easily through the hall. “Break it off. There'll be no more fighting here today.”

Eliot and Quinn stilled their swords at once, more grateful for the order than they ever would have admitted. Yet, no longer able to ignore the weakness and exhaustion of their bodies, the two men sank to their knees, their swords falling to the floor.

Parker and Hardison rushed forward to tend to Eliot, and Parker took him into her arms and supported him against her while Hardison tried to see where the worst of the bleeding was.

“Now,” Olivia said in a low an angry voice, her gaze shifting from her father to Nathan and back again, “ _fix this_. You're both intelligent men, or so I've heard, and you both know this can't go on.”

“I just want Parker, and for you to respect the boundaries between us again,” Nathan said, fixing a sorrowful gaze on Sterling. They'd been friends once, in a strange kind of way, but he was too much of a realist to believe they'd ever see that friendship again.

“And what do I get in return for such magnanimity?” Sterling asked contemptuously. “A nice pat on the back?”

Nathan lifted his chin. “How about this castle and the lands surrounding it?” he asked quietly. At Sterling's shocked looked, he shook his head and glanced away. “This pile of bricks has been in my family for generations,” he said softly, “but I wanted to expand and improve it for Sam. It was to be his when he came of age. But,” he flinched and twisted his hands together in his lap, “that will never happen now.”

Sophie moved to him and reached for his hands, separating them and then cradling one tightly in her own.

Nathan smiled up at her briefly, then turned his attention to Sterling and Olivia. “I'll deed it to her,” he said quietly, “with a provision that you serve as bailiff until she comes of age.” He sighed and nodded to her. “My son will never see it,” he breathed. “It should go to someone who can truly appreciate it.”

She gazed at him in shock, hardly knowing what to say. “Thank you, my lord,” she finally managed.

“That's … very generous of you,” Sterling breathed.

Nathan tried to smile, but couldn't quite manage. Instead he clung to Sophie's hand and nodded. “She's smarter than either of us,” he sighed. “Hopefully, she'll be better than either of us, too.”

Sterling slipped an arm about his daughter's shoulders and pulled her close, smiling softly down at her. “She already is,” he said quietly. He lifted his gaze back to Nathan. “Fine. You have Parker and her friends, and my promise to withdraw all my men from your lands in exchange for this castle to be deeded over to my daughter. Is there anything else?”

Nathan rose to his feet and stepped away from the chair. “I think that's it.”

“Fine,” Sterling said curtly. “Then collect your people and go.” He held out an arm to Olivia. “I believe we have a chess match to resume.”

Nate watched them leave, desperately envying Sterling for a moment, then swallowed the feeling and turned to study Eliot. “Parker, Hardison,” he called, “get him on my horse. Then,” he sighed and reached again for Sophie's hand, “let's get the hell out of here.”

  


  
To his own shock, and perhaps a bit of horror, he realized he could get used to this. Might, in fact, be getting used to it already.

And just how in the hell had that happened?

After leaving the castle, they'd brought him back here, to his father's … his … house, stripped him of his mail and weapons and gotten him into bed. And, just like yesterday, when he'd assured them he could take care of his wounds himself, they'd ignored him and taken that task upon themselves.

And he … did not mind. At all.

Oh, he spat and cursed and threatened Hardison when the younger man again somehow mistook _cleaning his wounds_ for _pouring liquid fire into them_ \- did he only have medicines that burned? - and he grumbled when he detected the aftertaste of whatever sleeping potion Sophie had slipped into his wine. But even as he complained about them, these things - no, these _people_ \- gave him a feeling he'd not had since he'd left Damien.

Belonging. Home. _Peace._

Unlike with Damien, though, he'd not had to sacrifice anything of himself to find it. And they might just be helping him find pieces of himself he'd thought already lost.

Strange.

He drifted to sleep with the sound of Hardison's endless chatter about the improvements he intended to make to Eliot's mail - something about a way he'd come up with for making the links both stronger and smaller and thus better at protecting him - and Lord Nathan … Nate … asking questions that only encouraged him. Archie was wandering around, admiring many of the belongings he'd brought with him from the Levant - and he'd have to remind himself to go back through and count everything later - and Sophie kept them all entertained, and perhaps a bit frightened, with outrageous (and undoubtedly all true) stories of her travels and “conquests” throughout the world.

Apparently he belonged with thieves.

And with one thief in particular.

At some point in the night, long after the others had gone to seek their own rest, he felt Parker slip into bed with him and press herself close against him, draping an arm over him. He smiled drowsily and laid his an arm over hers, then drifted back to sleep with the feel of her breath against his skin and the warmth and softness of her body easing him into a deep and healing rest.

When he woke in the morning she was gone, but on the pillow beside him was a small leather-bound book. He frowned and sat up, wincing at the pull of his wounds, picked up the book and opened it-

And marveled at finely drawn pictures of a boy holding a sword aloft and singing joyously or simply lying on his back in a field of grass and flowers and gazing up at the clouds. He ran sword-callused fingers lightly over the pictures, letting the memories they evoked wash over him and feeling all the years and blood that had come to lay like a heavy pall on his soul simply fall away.

He was home.

And somewhere a little thief in a tattered rainbow dress waited for him to watch her dance.

  
**Epilogue:**

He sat cross-legged atop the house and ate his lunch of cold mutton and bread as he surveyed his handiwork. Somewhere over the past few months, “fixing” the roof had turned into “replacing” the roof, and a task that gave him a strange sense of pleasure. He still practiced daily with his sword, knives and whatever other weapon he could find (and some things that perhaps had never been intended to be weapons), kept his blades sharp, his mail cleaned and oiled and his stallion well exercised, but he'd also discovered a startling sense of fulfillment in tasks completely unrelated to war - working on the roof, whitewashing the walls, working in the garden.

And what had once been his father's house was gradually becoming his own.

He finished his lunch and turned to get back to work … then sighed and shook his head as he saw a familiar sight in the distance. Hardison, in that ridiculous wagon of his, turning onto the road that led here. Eliot rolled his eyes and went back to work.

This house had become something of an obsession for Hardison, too. The younger man's inventive, if eccentric, mind constantly dreamed up new tools, implements and systems for Eliot to try. To give him his due, some had worked; others had been spectacular (and sometimes nearly fatal) failures.

And he'd been threatened with a slow and hideously painful death if he ever went near the oven again. Eliot had become very protective of his kitchen, and Hardison (with Parker's gleeful assistance) had come perilously near burning it down one too many times.

Those two together certainly made his life more interesting, but they also seemed determined to shorten it.

He chuckled under his breath and shook his head as he worked. Still, it was a better life than anyone like him had any right to claim-

“Eliot!”

Hardison pulled his wagon into the yard and set the brake, then stood up and waved him down. “Nate wants us!”

Eliot groaned and hung his head. Nate - they'd all fallen into using the familiar nickname - was another interesting development in his life. The man had more schemes than even Hardison, was as conniving and manipulative as Damien had ever been, could be every bit as much an insufferable bastard as Sterling … and somehow he'd won Eliot's undying respect and loyalty.

When Eliot wasn't thinking of a thousand ways to kill him.

“For what?” he shouted down. “I've got work to do! The rains will start soon, and this roof won't fix itself-”

“That roof's in better shape now than it ever has been and you know it,” Hardison countered. “Besides, Nate said this won't take long, a few days at the most.”

Eliot snorted; he'd heard _that_ before. “What is it this time?”

Hardison grinned. “There's a man goin' around sellin' 'special seeds' to folks, promisin' they'll triple the yield of their crops.”

Eliot arched a brow. “Let me guess, he's charging like they're gold?”

Hardison nodded. “Folks are givin' up their hard-earned money for the promise of crops they ain't ever gonna see. These seeds won't produce anything.”

“And what does Nate want us to do about it?”

Hardison grinned. “He's got a plan.”

Eliot groaned and bowed his head. Of _course_ Nate had a plan. Nate had a plan for _everything_. And some of them even worked.

“And just why the hell should I care?” he asked, though he knew it was a stupid question. Worse, Hardison knew it was a stupid question. Hell, anyone who knew him knew it was a stupid question.

These people had ruined him. And saved him.

Hardison shrugged lazily. “Bastard's preyin' on people who don't know any better. And when those crops don't come in, they're gonna lose everything. Nate figures we can help.”

“And what am _I_ supposed to do?”

Hardison grinned again. “Nate said if his plan doesn't work, you can just beat the shit out of the son of a bitch.”

Eliot considered a moment, then nodded. “Sounds good,” he said, a grin of his own spreading. “Give me time to get down and get into some clean clothes. And you can saddle my horse for me.”

“Why do I always have to saddle that beast?” Hardison complained. “Damn thing hates me.”

Eliot gathered up his tools and made his way to the ladder, climbing down with a nimble grace. “'Cause you talk too much,” he growled. “It irritates him. Kinda like it does me.” He flicked a glance over the younger man. “Not that it matters to you. Go saddle him. I'll be right out.”

“You don't really need your horse, you know,” Hardison insisted. “There's nothing wrong with riding on Lucille!”

Eliot simply ignored him and went inside, fairly certain his horse would be saddled and waiting and Hardison would still be complaining when he came out.

He was right.

They set off for Nate's - he on his horse, Hardison on his wagon - and took the shortcut through the forest. As they passed beneath a huge oak tree, a slim figure dropped from a limb above and landed behind Eliot, slipping slender but strong arms about him and pressing close against him. He smiled, relaxed and glanced back-

And saw a smudge of dirt on her cheek and a butterfly in her bright golden hair.

_**The End** _  



End file.
